Recrudescence
by Ghost4
Summary: What happened after everything didn't end. Starts as a missing scene from Swan Song and goes from there. H/C. Rating for Language.
1. Prologue: Requiem

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine... and for the first time in way too long I really, really wish they were. I'll fight you for them. I will.

Synopsis: What happened after everything didn't end. Starts as a missing scene from Swan Song and goes from there. H/C. Rating for Language.

Author's notes: Buckle up. This will be a dark ride. Not betaed (yet). I apologize, but I didn't want to stop, and my beta is busy this week.

* * *

Mama, put my guns in the ground  
I can't shoot them anymore.  
That long black cloud is comin' down  
I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door.

_~Bob Dylan – Knocking on Heaven's Door_

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* * *

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The gun lying on the hood of the Impala looked like an accusation.

The bright metal shone marvelously against the dark orange of the old shop-cloth, the sharp light of a full moon running over it like water. The fabric under it was soft and smooth with years of use. The oil that they'd always used to care for the weapons – the same brand their father had used – permeated the weave of the cloth, leaving it slick to the touch. They never threw out old rags. It was only the old rags that had 'cured' properly. It was only the old rags that could be used to store the guns and be trusted to keep the moisture and grit away from the fine metal.

Dean's hands had been shaking when he had pulled the Taurus from the back of the Impala. His fingers wandered the unadorned metal, brushed over the mother-of -pearl inlay, felt the weight of it, so solid…

The memories hit him like a bullet in the chest: Sam, holding the weapon ready; Sam backing him up; Sam cleaning it, kicked back on some anonymous bed in some anonymous town somewhere; Sam, fighting him for the box of rounds as he teased; Sam, gun in one hand, playing rock-paper-scissors with the other for 'first through the door' rights, and always beating him; Sam… just Sam, _always_ Sam. As constant and consistent in his life as the guns, as the Impala that held them. And the world tried to fall out from underneath Dean's feet.

He didn't stagger, through. He closed his eyes, and he breathed, and he let the memories fade with each exhalation. He let them come and let them go, and didn't try to hold them – not yet. Not this soon; not right now…not when he had a job to do.

He swallowed as the emotions settled again, fighting to get past a throat that felt swollen and clogged – but he was still on his feet, and still in control, and his heart might be breaking, but it didn't stop.

Moving almost blindly, he went from trunk to hood, stopping only long enough to break out his cleaning supplies.

He kicked back on the hood -- alone. For a long time that was all he could do… that was all he could handle – sitting by himself on the car, watching the stars slowly spin. The night was so beautiful. So dangerous and so beautiful. The stars were cold and distant and always present – like the deep, relentless ache in his chest and the slow churning in his stomach. The pain didn't fade so much as cycle, cranking up and leaving him breathless one second, and dropping to a vague tightness the next. But it never stopped… not even as his mind finally stilled. Even not thinking, he still hurt.

He didn't mind it, somehow, though. The pain felt…right. It felt _proper_. He could live with it – not that he had much choice. He understood instinctively that this ache would never fade, that this one was wound that would never heal, not completely. That some part of him would always be raw and bloody and _maimed_. It might scab over, it might lessen, but he would never heal.

But that was also proper. He understood now that surviving had its own price – as eternal, in its way, as death.

The moon and stars were his only witnesses as he reverently laid out the shop-cloth, the smell of gun oil in it was the sent of family, of home. He bowed his head and began breaking the Taurus apart.

He spent damn near the full night perched on the hood, caring for the gun – sitting alone, cleaning and oiling the machine with fingers that were so meticulous, despite the shaking hands. Being so very careful to be _precise_, despite the way his eyes just wouldn't seem to stay clear. He held each piece, he oiled and cleaned and oiled again. He polished. He checked and rechecked. He let himself work without restraint – if it felt right to clean it for the third, or fourth or the eighteenth time, he did. He worked slowly, painstakingly. He didn't know how many times his mind had wandered away, caught in memories, in longings, in wishes and what-if's…but eventually the pain of those thoughts would make him realize he was drifting, and he'd drag himself back to the job. He forced himself to focus on the task as the pain in his chest cycled through its tides; washing him out, dragging him back. The task of cleaning the weapon, of preparing it for storage, was an anchor to the ebb and flow of his emotions.

He wasn't stupid. He knew, even as he was doing it, what the gun was standing in for. He felt the ritualistic nature of cleaning the Taurus as clearly as most people responded to the rhythm of a funeral prayer. He understood. And he didn't care.

The work was practiced, comforting, and kept his hands busy. It was a place to fix his thoughts when they tried to stray into dark, cold places; his gut twisting with the hollow agony of knowing…

Knowing things he wished he didn't.

Cleaning the gun kept him steady through that long first night. Kept him grounded when the ground wanted to fall away. It kept him sane.

And it was the one thing he could do for Sam now. The only way he could help… he could make this one, tiny thing right for his brother.

It was morning before he felt like he was through. The sun was beginning to rise, steady and warm and heavy with the promise of summer, by the time the weapon was clean enough to suite him. It was ready to be enfolded and enclosed and packed away, where wind and rust couldn't mar the delicate beauty of its lines, or water get into its workings and steal away its function. It was all he could do for Sam, to honor him… to say good-bye.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough.

But it was all he had.

The Taurus, Sam's Taurus, lay on its old shop-cloth, centered and cleaned and as safe as Dean could make it. Unloaded and exposed in the harsh light of the sun, the pistol looked lost. Abandoned.

Vulnerable.

And he ignored the burning in his throat, the hitch in his breath as he folded the cloth reverently over the gleaming metal. The cloth would protect the gun, keep it dry and safe and whole – something Sam would never be again.

The thought seared him, driving the breath from his chest in an agonizing huff that was so fast and so hard it wasn't even a sob. The bent over the lovingly shrouded gun, his hand fisted in the oil-cloth, and gasped for breath. His lungs were not cooperating, seizing half-way each time he inhaled, so that all he could do was close his eyes and wait, the pain so intense, so _physical_, that he couldn't even think for a few seconds.

It passed, eventually – washing out of him slowly. And once it was gone he felt hollow and tired and shivery.

And suddenly all he wanted this _done_. He wanted to be finished.

He fixed the cloth, pulling out the wrinkles where his clutching fingers had tugged at the wrappings, and taped it shut. Once the bundle was closed, he want back to the trunk and slid the Taurus into the depths, hiding it in the shadows, burying it in the safest, best place he knew.

And he already missed his brother…missed him so _fiercely_ that his heart stuttered with it. Missed him so much that, when he shut the cover to the weapons stash in the trunk and he reflexively glanced up – expecting Sam to be standing at the passenger door, head cocked and waiting – the absence of him was like acid washing through his veins. Cold and burning and uncontrollable.

He shivered as the tide came in again, a black wave of loss and anger and hopelessness and despair. Dean held on to the hot metal of the Impala and shuddered through it, waiting for it to pass.

It did. Eventually.

Once he could move again, he closed the trunk and got behind the wheel. He drove away from the field where he'd symbolically buried his brother without looking back. He had a promise to keep.

And he never expected to see the Taurus again once he'd put it away.

Much like his brother.

He was wrong on both counts.


	2. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: Okay, so I'm not happy with this – it's way too much exposition. But for the life of me I can't figure out how to break it up. This is pretty much the beginning of the plot on a plate, and I can't separate it and still explain why what happens in the next chapter happens. Gha. Okay, anyway. Enough whining.

All thanks for the incredible beta job go to Mikiya. Also a boat-load of thanks for the continuous hand-holding she;s having to do for me on this one. Also: she's a genius. Just so you know.

As always: All comments, good, bad or indifferent are entirely welcome.

* * *

Chapter 1: Resonance

Living in a fantasy but it's way too far  
But this kind of loneliness is way too hard  
I've been wandering, feeling all alone  
I lost my direction and I lost my home...  
I'm so sick and tired  
Now I'm on the slide  
Feeling so despised  
When you laugh, laugh  
I almost died  
_ ~The Rolling Stones – Laugh, I Nearly Died_

* * *

_Four months later_

Dean occasionally wondered if he was sane anymore. Not whether he was normal or not – hell, he knew he wasn't normal, never had been and never would be – but in a clinical, psychiatric sense. He had real questions about his own sanity.

He was seeing Sam.

Not every day, not all the time. Just, sometimes, he would feel eyes and glance up, and he could swear that he glimpsed a shadow or a shape that a fraction of a second before would have been his brother.

Not that it was possible. If Sam was still alive, then he was trapped in a cage that _no_ _one_ could ever get out of – and even if he was dead, he still wouldn't be touring around up here. No way. They had both known that Sam's trip downstairs was a permanent situation. Even dead, no one would be lining up to pull _him_ from perdition. Sam had been a tool, one that had turned on its user and cut him – but just a tool. Now that his usefulness was over, he would be left to rot. He wasn't getting a 'get out of jail free card' anytime soon, alive or dead.

But Dean was still seeing him.

So, that meant he was going nuts. Like, really nuts. Like seeing his lost brother and not minding it much, nuts.

Oddly, the idea of going insane didn't bother him as much as it probably should have. It would almost be …nice. He could talk about everything, be completely himself, and no one would be shocked.

He felt a smile pull at his mouth at the idea of wandering through the grocery while telling Ben the best ways to gut an illichi or decapitate a vampire, loudly and in great detail. The reaction of the other shoppers alone would almost be worth the trip to the loony-bin that would follow.

Ben saw the expression and grinned back at him from his perch on the top of the monkey-bars, not far away. He had a plastic pistol and was busily blowing away invisible zombies. He was ten, and bouncing between kid-dom and the scary ride of adolescence. Today, when Dean had picked him up from school, he'd asked to go to the park, so kid-dom had won at least one more time.

Dean was glad. He remembered this stage from another little boy he'd spent his afternoons watching – and it was nice, seeing Ben play in a way he and Sam had never really gotten to experience. Ben played so _openly_ – without the wariness that he and Sam had always had. Especially Sam. It had been hard for him to let down his guard and just play. Part of Sam had always been searching for the danger he knew was there… because it was _always_ there.

Ben played differently. Loose and unconcerned. When Ben played, he _played_. And Dean kind of treasured every second of it.

Legs dangling through the bars, Ben raised the toy gun; and Dean watched as he ejected the non-existent clip, slapped another in place, chambered a round, and fired – complete with extreme sound effects.

"Don't lock your elbow," Dean called to him.

Ben glanced over again. "What?"

"Don't lock your elbow when you point the gun. It'll drag your aim off."

Ben frowned. "It's not a real gun. I can't _really_ shoot."

"I know," Dean said patiently, stretching his legs out and lacing his hands behind his head. "But your building _real_ bad habits that will take hard work to break when you start using real guns. Don't lock your elbow like that."

Ben sneered a bit, but the next time he fired his stance was better and his arm was relaxed.

A woman sitting on the next bench over was staring at Dean with wide, appalled eyes. Dean sighed, fighting back the twin urges to both tell her to mind her own business, and to lie to her – maybe tell her they were into competition shooting as a family hobby. Anything to just seem _normal_.

He decided that she wasn't worth the energy it would take to turn on the charm. He didn't care. He just really didn't care. He wasn't normal, and he didn't fit with these people, and it wasn't like he'd been wrong…

And he missed his brother with a sudden, sharp pang, knowing that Sam would have been the only person in the whole fucking world who would have understood both why he corrected Ben, and why he felt the need to lie to the woman just to win her approval. The only other person who had grown-up the same not-normal way.

He leaned forward, rubbing his hands over his face roughly. He just got so _tired_, dealing with the _normal_ people all day. He could see now why Sam had made a choice to leave hunting behind when he started school: in order to be a part of this world you had to let go of the other. The two couldn't rest easy together.

And Dean just didn't think he could do that. He was too much a hunter to ever be able to let it go completely.

He was what his father had made him.

The thought was automatic… and he wasn't ready for the pain that twisted through his heart.

He managed not to gasp as the grief clamped down on him with jaws as large and strong as any hellhound. Invisible fangs buried themselves in his heart, in his lungs, ripping open old wounds and making new ones. He was a bundle of raw, bleeding wounds now. He was fine on the outside, but inside… inside the hounds tore at him constantly. It happened every time he stumbled over some memory of his family – of his brother specifically – so he tried not to think about them too much. He tried to pack it all away – to go to work at the garage, and watch over Ben, and eat dinner at the table every night. He tried to be normal, he _did_... but normal was so far from how he felt, and from who he was. It was like being locked in a cage. A pretty, safe little cage – that had bars that zapped him when he happened to brush against them.

Yet, he knew this life was probably as close to good as he was ever going to get. Ben and Lisa were the life his father could never give him, the stability that his brother could never provide. This was the life he _wanted_, that he'd dreamed about – and if he gave it up he would probably never find it again.

He felt the bite of that, too.

Dean pulled a small flask out of his pocket and took a deep pull. The burn of the whiskey helped to offset the burn in his sinuses as thoughts of Sam and their dad and everything he had lost tumbled through his head. It helped him to get a grip on them, and push them so far away that he didn't have to remember that they had ever existed.

And yeah, he knew he was drinking too much, but he looked at it as medicinal: it helped him sleep, helped him wake up, helped him to forget… and it helped him control the urge to beat the crap out of annoying little normal people. It wasn't like he was drinking for fun. At least, not anymore.

The woman on the bench jumped up at the sight of the flask, and, gathering her brood, hurried off.

Good riddance. He didn't like having her buggy, judgy eyes turned his direction, anyway. He took another pull before putting the flask away.

He knew the level of anger coursing through him was way out of proportion with the offense. Hell, a year ago he would have been laughing at her snooty ways while Sam –

Dean stopped, just stopped. He closed his eyes and breathed and brought himself back from the ledge he could suddenly feel under his feet. He couldn't break down in pain, and he damn well couldn't release the anger – not with Ben only a few feet away and relying on him.

By the time Dean had himself back under control, Ben's monkey-bars had been overrun with flesh-eating, mutant zombies. Ben jumped down, calling to equally imaginary compatriots, and they retreated under the slide.

For a second Dean was alone. The early autumn wind danced through trees that held just the barest hint of color. It carried the slightest tang of freshly mown grass, crisp and clean. The sun was hot and the air was sweet.

It was a good day.

And it was all Dean could do to _not_ break down – and wail and scream and hit someone, beat them to a pulp, just so they would feel an ounce of the pain he now lived with every day.

Which was another sign that he must be going insane.

"You are not going insane, Dean."

Dean jerked to his feet, whirling, reaching for a gun he no longer carried at all times. He still had the knife, though, stored in his belt sheath. His fingers twitched as he fought the urge to pull it, even after he recognized the speaker.

Castiel stood behind the bench. He looked pretty much the same: same lame coat, same rumpled suit. But his eyes were harder now. "You are not going insane," he repeated, his voice dryly factual. "You are grieving. It takes time."

"Cas," Dean greeted him, trying to decide if his heart was pounding more from anger or fear. None of it showed in his voice, though. It was steady, and slightly sarcastic, as he spoke. "Well, isn't this a surprise. I have to say, I never expected to see you again, really. And _definitely_ not this soon."

"You wouldn't have," the angel admitted flatly. "But there is a problem."

Dean felt the sound as a laugh, but it came out more like a growl. "Of course there is." Dean knew which it was now. It was anger. Pure anger. Not particularly against Cas himself, but against his kind – against those manipulating, calculating, _stupid_, sons of bitches – and the fates that had led them to play his family false for so damned long.

Cas sighed at Dean's tone. "I know what you are feeling. I know your anger, your pain. And you are not wrong to harbor it. But you must know I would not intrude on your grief if it wasn't absolutely necessary."

"'Absolutely necessary'?" Dean repeated, bitterly. "Look, my definition of _necessary_ is probably a little different than yours at this point. Everything that ranked under my necessary is gone now. I'm not interested in your problems, Cas. No offense," he added, letting his tone be as offensive as it wanted.

The angel didn't even twitch. "What if I told you it concerned the world coming to an end?"

Dean turned to scan the playground, checking on Ben. "Didn't take you long to screw up the promotion, did it?" He didn't bother to tone down the contempt in his voice.

"This isn't a joke, Dean," the angel's face was tight, his shoulders hunched slightly. "There is a plot afoot to reopen the cage."

Dean turned back, searching Castiel's eyes. His jaw worked. "That's not possible." He knew it wasn't possible. He _knew_ it. "It can't happen. They don't have the rings; they can't get in."

"They don't need the rings, Dean." For the first time, real pain touched Castiel's eyes. "There is another way to open the cage. You know this."

For half a second Dean was confused – then it hit him. "No. No way! No _fucking_ way! Lilith is _dead_. They can't kill her again!"

Castiel's head shifted, almost sympathetically. "It needn't be Lilith. It was less her specific being than her standing. An ancient preternatural being. One with enough power that – released by her death – it could pry the lid off of the box. Another sacrifice could be made."

Dean felt a sudden pervasive chill, like the sun had disappeared behind a cloud, turning the bright day shadowed and cold. "What about the seals?"

But Castiel was already shaking his head. "There has not been time to reset the seals. They remain broken. The path to the cage is open."

"Lilith was the oldest of her kind, right?" Dean asked, hearing the desperate quality to his voice and hating it, but he couldn't stop it. Real fear was taking hold of him with rough hands. "There are no more demons at her pay-grade. Even if the sacrifice could be made, there's no one to offer up."

Castiel's expression took on a hard cast. "You are correct. There is not another demon who would have the power to open the cage," he paused, and swallowed, and Dean could see shame glazing his eyes. "But there are still archangels who can make such a sacrifice. They have the required power to open the door."

Dean's pulse tripled. He felt something thick and heavy climbing his spine, settling against the back of his neck. He recognized the hopeless sensation of dread falling back into place. "Angels?" he half demanded.

Castiel dropped his eyes. "Raphael. He leads the faction of angels that followed Michael most fiercely. Most of my brethren have accepted Michael's loss, but those who longed most for the end of days, and for our Father's return – they have banded together behind Raphael. He calls them to prepare to reopen the cage in which Michael languishes. He says that our Father never intended the greatest of us to be entombed in such a way. That it is further proof of God's death. Raphael says that He would never do such a thing to his most beloved." The last words were colored by a not so subtle disgust.

"'_Most beloved'_," Dean sneered. "Wasn't that what they called Lucifer, once upon a time?" Then he shook his head. "Whatever. Raphael was always crazier than a shit-house rat. What's he going to do?"

Cas looked almost sad. "He preaches that our interference in stopping Michael's Apocalypse was wrong, that it went against the ineffable plan. He believes that Michael can take our Father's place in leading us after defeating Lucifer. He has offered his own life to open the gate for Michael."

Dean huffed, running a hand through his hair. "Does this have a chance of working?"

"I came down here, didn't I?"

It was answer enough. The angel had already said he wouldn't have bothered Dean if there had been any other option. "Okay," Dean said. "Ralph's attempt on the cage is doable. Check. But if he opens the door for Michael, what's to stop Lucifer from coming on through, too?"

"Nothing," Cas admitted. "If the door is opened, I have no doubt that both Michael and Lucifer will escape. And once free…"

"Once free, they'll pick right back up where they left off and we all die. _Fuck_!" Dean snarled, but he kept his voice low enough that Ben never even glanced over from his place near the slide. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache beginning to brew inside his skull. "This is just never going to end, is it?"

"I know this is yet another burden," Castiel said, and his voice carried a note of real contrition. "And you do not deserve it, especially after all you have already done. But Raphael stands to undo all that you and your brother sacrificed to achieve. He must be stopped."

"How?" Dean demanded, knowing he sounded desperate, but not able to help it. "Exactly how can we stop a deranged archangel on a suicide run, Cas?"

"He can be… impeded," the angel responded hesitantly, but there was a sense of determination under the words. "The sacrifice can not be self-mutilation. Another angel must bear the sword that takes his life. If we can contain either of them, then Raphael will not be able to complete the ritual. Our best option will be to take the lesser angel, leaving Raphael without anyone to make the sacrifice."

"So, can you? Take the lesser angel?"

Cas looked a little shamefaced. "No. At least it's not likely. Any angel can hold the knife. Raphael has numbers – not as many as he would like, but adequate to keep us busy and buy himself enough time to complete the ritual and open the gate. We will fight, but he _will_ most likely make the sacrifice. And that's why I came to you." Cas shifted, body language edgy. "I need the rings."

"No." Dean's refusal was instant, unthinking – and came out in a voice that held more anger then he would have expected. The rings were another thing that Dean didn't let himself think about. His brother was in a place that made Hell itself look like Disneyland; and he was trapped there with the lord of all evil – a creature so twisted and malignant that Hell had been _created_ for him.

And Dean had the keys that could let him out.

After…just, after – Dean had spotted the still joined rings, laying so innocently and sedately on the rough grass, slowly cooling. Working on instinct, his face still swollen from Lucifer's beating, Dean had crawled, literally _crawled_, to them and gathered the rings up. They were the last connection he had to Sam. The last thing Sam had touched before he'd jumped, taking Michael with him.

Those rings had been on his mind constantly ever since. They were the key to let Sam out – to _saving_ him…

And Dean couldn't use them.

He had the way to save his brother… he could lay hands on them any time he wanted and let Sam out – but not without bringing ruin to the world and destroying everything his brother had sacrificed himself for.

Everyday, every _damned_ day, Dean carried the weight of those bands, burning in his mind, as hot as they'd been after the cage slammed shut. Every day he thought about what Sam and Adam were going through, and he thought about those rings – and _every_ _damned_ _day_ he made the choice to honor Sam and _not_ use them.

And no one else was going to do it either. Not _ever_.

"No, Cas," he snarled. "No way. _Nobody_ gets those. Not you, not them, not God himself, if the bastard ever decides to show up. _No_."

"We need them, Dean," Cas argued. "I understand your reluctance; I do. But if – when – Raphael opens the cage, we must have the rings to slam it shut."

Dean turned that over. "You…you can't stop Raphael from opening the cage, so you want to bring the spare key, and lock it behind him?"

Castiel nodded. "The rings will ensure that Raphael's sacrifice is baseless. Should he manage to open the cage, we will simply shut it once again. If the ones who follow him witness him squandering his life is such a way, it may deter them from trying again. It _might_ buy us enough time to re-set the seals. We could eliminate this way of accessing Michael, and render such actions useless in the future."

He collapsed back on to the bench. "Have you tried just _talking_ to Raphael? You'd be surprised at how often that can nip this sort of crap in the bud."

Dean was unsurprised by the confused shock on Cas' face. "Raphael will not listen. I have aligned myself with the undeserving, and moved to derail Michael's plans. I am anathema to Raphael and those who follow him."

Dean snorted, but there was no real humor in it. "So you argued with Big Brother, and he shut you down because you made your own decisions about what was right and what was important. Why does that sound familiar?" He pulled the flask back out, taking a deep drink. His head was beginning to pound. He felt… tired, and old, all of the sudden.

Cas actually reared back, his eyes wide. "If you are comparing me with Lucifer…" he started, honestly offended.

This time Dean did laugh, a bitter, twisted sound. "I was comparing you to me and Sam, but whatever…" He took another drink. Watched Ben play. The zombies had been defeated, and Ben was celebrating with his imaginary brothers-in-arms.

Dean could have told him not to bother celebrating. The zombies always came back.

Dean felt an almost overwhelming wave of grief and despair… and a grim sort of bitter humor. After all the debating on whether to stay or whether to leave, all the angsting over his normal life – the choice was being made for him.

"How long do we have?" he asked the angel, still watching Ben.

"You will give me the rings?" Castiel responded, his tone surprised.

"No," Dean clarified. "But I'll come. I'll bring them. I won't let everything Sam did be torn down because Raphael is having a hissy-fit. I can't. But I won't let anyone have those rings, either." His tone held an implicit warning.

The angel nodded slowly, almost sadly. "All right. We do not have much time. Raphael will move quickly, to keep us from being able to act against him. He waits only to gather his followers. Sooner is better then later."

Dean nodded. "Is a week too long?" It would take him that long to collect the rings. Dean had made damned sure that they were safe; taking steps to protect them against all thieves, be they human, angel or demon. He'd locked the rings inside salt-filled curse-boxes, inscribed with devil's traps; which were inside pure iron, angel-warded lock-boxes – all of which were in four separate security boxes at four different, highly protected banks, in four separate states. And he'd further warded them to hide them from human scrying; used Enochian to block angel radar; and packed Ruby's conjure bags in with them to keep them from demonic eyes.

Even if someone managed to find them and take one ring, he would be instantly notified and could move the other three.

"If you must have the time, then, yes," Cas replied less then happily.

"I must," Dean said flatly. "Meet me at Bobby's in a week. I'll be there, and I'll have the rings. Then we stop your idiot brothers from ending the world. Again."

Cas nodded. "One week then. Go with God, Dean."

"Bite me, Castiel," Dean replied, leaning back and spreading his arms over the back of the bench, his eyes on Ben.

There was a flicker, like huge wings fluttering at the edge of his vision, and Cas was gone.

The motion attracted Ben's attention. The boy looked around, frowning. Then he shrugged, and trotted over. He flopped bonelessly next to Dean on the bench, tucking himself under one arm. Dean's throat tightened, remembering another little boy who had done the same thing, back when he was small and Dean had been so much bigger.

"Were you talking to someone?" Ben asked, thankfully dragging Dean out of the memory before he could get pulled too far in.

Dean sighed, nodding. "An old friend. He needs my help."

Ben watched him for a long moment, and damn, Dean had forgotten how _perceptive_ kids could be. The boy frowned again. "Needs your help with something bad? Something like the monsters that took me that time?"

Dean's jaw clenched. "Something like that."

Ben nodded, not happy, but accepting. He sat quietly, kicking his feet as they both stared blankly at the carefully manicured park. After awhile Dean hugged him briefly, wrapping one long arm around the boy's slim shoulders. Ben glanced up, his wide eyes sad, but trusting. And achingly familiar. Dean's heart clenched.

"Games all done?" he asked, before he slipped into yet another chick-flick moment.

"Yeah," Ben responded, an almost disappointed note in his tone. He picked at his sneaker, glancing at Dean sideways, his gaze far too knowing. "I think it's probably time to go home, now."

Dean swallowed past the hard, sharp knot in his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, it probably is."

He hugged Ben one more time, and then they got up and started walking toward the car.

It was probably time to go home now.


	3. Chapter 2a

Author's Notes: Thanks again to Mikiya for the beta. That was performance above and beyond. As always. All remaining mistakes and run-on sentences are all mine. Mine! All mine!

There is more to this chapter. It's done and being edited. Should post soon.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent are more then welcome.

* * *

Life is like a carousel  
You aim for heaven  
And you wind up in hell  
To all the world you're living like a king  
But you're just a puppet on a broken string

Oh, I will face the sun  
Leaving shadows far behind  
And together we'll go on  
Through time

_~Bad Company – Crazy Circles_

_

* * *

_

It was raining when Dean turned up the long gravel lane to Bobby's place.

He didn't know exactly how he expected to feel, coming here again. Bobby's place had always sort of been shared territory for him and Sam. They had, periodically, spent part of their growing up here, and the falling out between Bobby and John had happened before Sam went away to college. After that, Dean hadn't seen the man again until he and Sam were back together, so Dean had never really been here for any length of time without Sam.

And it was… strange, to be here without Sam either with him in the car, or on his way. And he still didn't know quite how he felt – other than the fact that the falling rain suited him, at the moment.

It was pouring, too. But in a gentle way; the rain was falling constantly and heavily, but with no wind and no storm. What his dad had always called a good soaking rain, the kind that makes plants come to life, and washes the streets clean. He and Sam had played in the rain when it was like this; darting out onto motel blacktops, the tar hot and sticky on their feet, as the rain fell in cool sheets and their dad called to them to keep their guns dry…

Dean sighed as the windshield-wipers swished again, and in the brief clear patch he could see Bobby, leaning against the rail on the covered front porch, watching the rain and waiting.

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop, and took his time getting out – rolling up the window he'd cracked, twisting to grab his bag from the back seat, checking it needlessly.

Finally there was nothing left to keep him in the car. He had no idea why he was so reluctant to get out. He wanted to see Bobby, he really did…but some part of him didn't want to go into that house where Sam wasn't.

Not that waiting would change anything.

Dean took a breath that only stuck in his throat a couple of times, and opened his door.

He didn't bother to hurry, rain or not.

Bobby stood quietly on the porch, letting him take whatever time he needed. And eventually he clomped up the steps, damp and strangely nervous and not quite able to smile as he said: "Hey, Bobby."

The older man simply pulled him down, and hugged him, and Dean felt his eyes closing as something cold and heavy that was lodged in the bones in the back of his neck melted and flowed out of him like the rain fell, cleanly and gently.

He leaned his head on the older man's shoulder for half a second, almost shaking with the break of a tension he'd had no idea he was feeling. Then Bobby pushed him back and shook his head. "Not hunting doesn't mean you can't call every now and again, dumbass."

The laugh was shocked out of him; and though it was weak, it was as close to real happiness as he'd felt in way too long. "I know. I'm sorry. I was busy trying to be a suburbanite."

Bobby nodded, his expression amused. "How's that working out for ya?"

"About as well as you'd expect." Dean's slight grin offset the bitterness of the words.

"Uh-huh," Bobby, snorted. "Shave a wolf to look like a poodle, and you all you'll get is a pissed-off wolf." He thumped Dean's shoulder a couple of times, then turned toward the door. "Let's get on in, out of this rain. Coffee's on, and I bought pie."

Dean felt yet another smile – small, but there. He was shocked by how _easy_ it was to smile with Bobby when it had been so damn hard for the past few months. "You must have expected me to be in bad shape if you went out to buy pie."

Bobby actually looked embarrassed. "Yeah, well, it's been awhile since I _entertained_."

He tried to turn it into a joke, but the words were heavier than either of them expected. Dean could read the truth: that Bobby _had_ expected Dean to be in need of comfort, and was unsure of how to give it.

And it soothed something in Dean, knowing that Bobby had been so concerned for him that he'd gone out for pie. It warmed him, and the warm ached, like fingers exposed too long to the cold suddenly plunged into hot water. The pain was deep and aching, and felt good anyway.

Bobby led them through to the kitchen. Dean dropped into one of the chairs, while Bobby set out familiar chipped mugs – one with the logo of a local radio station, and the other with the unlikely caption: _Life is tough, put on your big girl panties and deal with it._

Bobby filled the first mug for Dean, and claimed the second for himself. He put the pie on the table with knives and forks, and then pulled out the whiskey. He gestured at Dean's mug, and added the liquor to both cups when Dean nodded.

"So…" Bobby started awkwardly, taking his own chair. "How's that girl of yours?"

Dean felt his mouth twist, but he wasn't sure if it looked much like a grin. "Not mine anymore, apparently."

Bobby grimaced. "What happened? Thought you were happy trying to play house?"

Dean shrugged. "She didn't want me leaving. Said she wouldn't put up with somebody coming in and out of her life. That it wasn't fair to her, and it wasn't fair to her son. She said if I left, I shouldn't bother to come back." Dean took a good swig of the bitter coffee. The heat of the liquid chased away the chill of the rain, while the burn of the alcohol warmed him in another way. He looked up at Bobby almost timidly. "I never knew how much those words hurt, you know? For someone to just… shut you out like that."

Bobby swallowed, harder than just getting the coffee down required. For a second he couldn't seem to meet Dean's eyes. He fiddled with his cup. "We all have shit we have to live with, and most of it ain't pretty," he finally said, the words gruff but his voice distant – and sad. He looked up. "Speaking of not pretty shit, you bring the rings with you?"

Dean nodded, letting the subject change. He wasn't sure he wanted to wade into that water either; it was deep and treacherous… and there were things in there that could drag a man under. Instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. Opening it, he poured the four rings onto the scared table.

He'd called Bobby the evening of Castiel's visit, and clued him in. Now they both stared at the rings, knowing what they were capable of – the literal Hell they could unleash. Or might stop.

Bobby cleared his throat. "That angel of yours wants to use these to shut down the gate that the other one wants to open?"

"Yep," Dean said, and he wasn't aware his hands had clenched until they cramped.

Bobby's eyes flickered up, his expression was uneasy. "Have you thought…"

Bobby's voice drifted off, thought unfinished – but Dean didn't need him to finish to understand. "Oh, I've thought. You name it, I've thought it. But there's no way. If I open the cage, the dickhead twins will be the first through the gate. There's no way I can keep them in and get Sam out. Just… no way." He met Bobby's eyes. "Besides, I promised Sam I wouldn't."

Bobby shifted. "But, you won't be opening the gate, Dean. Raphael will. You won't be breaking your promise. If you're just a little slow to close it –"

"No." The answer was quick as he cut Bobby off, but he kept his tone understanding. "Trust me, Bobby, I've thought about that. I have. And even though it _kills_ me, I can't do it. I drug Sam back once already. He made the choice…he could have killed Jake. He had him down, and he could have killed him. But Sam chose not to. He _died_ rather than become yellow-eye's bitch – and I brought him back. I took him out of heaven, and I left him alone on the road that led to this cluster-fuck."

"You _saved_ him, Dean," Bobby argued. "You gave up everything to bring him back."

Dean nodded, his throat tight. "Yeah, I did. But it was stupid and it was selfish – and I'd still do it again in a _heartbeat_ if I thought I could get him clear without destroying what he gave up everything to protect. I would. But I won't take away what he laid his life down for. Not again. I _can't_."

By the end of it, Dean was struggling to get the words through the snarled knot that was his throat. Bobby's own face was turned toward the rain washed window. His jaw worked. The rain was loud in the silent house, a constant, firm rhythm.

And the hell of it that Dean understood so much now, about Sam, about what had happened, about the part he'd played in it all…only now, it was too late to fix any of it.

Eventually Bobby nodded, his face a set of grim lines. "You're right. It… we can't risk it. This isn't something to play games with." He met Dean's eyes. "I'm sorry."

Dean cracked a grin, or at least he tried too. "Hey, it's not like I hadn't thought about it too." He reached out, picking up the rings one at a time, and dropping them back in the bag, ignoring the little metallic _clinks_ as they fell together. Out of sight, out of mind.

He would give anything if that were true.

"How long until Castiel gets here?" Bobby asked, absently turning his mug in tight circles on the table, making patterns with the rings. For all Dean knew, he was casting some kind of sigil, honoring the coffee gods.

The light outside the window was beginning to fade as night set in.

"As soon as he needs us," Dean answered, finishing off his own mug. The coffee had gone cold, but the whiskey in it still burned. "He was really worried…so it shouldn't be too long now."

Nether of them noticed how the shadows in the hall, muted by the rainy dusk, flickered… almost like large wings shifting restlessly.

xxxxxxx

Not too long ended up being about two days.

It was late on second day when Cas finally showed up. Dean had just gotten out of the shower, and opened the bedroom door – only to find the angel standing there. One second he was alone, the next, Castiel was next to him.

"Damn it, Cas," he groused, startled – and having to snatch a slipping towel back into place. "Are you ever gonna learn to knock?"

The angel looked… worn, somehow. Tired. His body language was edgy; and if Dean had to guess, he would have said he seemed almost nervous. But his eyes were fierce as he looked at Dean. "It is time. Raphael is gathering his followers. You have the rings?"

Dean nodded, automatically falling into hunting mode; he could feel the mindset click back into place like a missing piece of his self. His stomach tried to churn, but he ignored it. Gather information, make a plan, act – there was no time for nerves. "I have them. How are we doing this? Angel Express, or can I just drive?"

"He plans the ritual for Stull Cemetery, hoping that the energy that lingers there will help pry open the cage. How long will it take you to get that far?"

Dean ran the route through a rough, mental map. "Probably about five hours. Four if I push. Three and a half if I push hard."

Castiel nodded. "Fine. That should be enough time. Raphael's followers will need time to extract themselves from their barracks, and the ritual will not begin until dawn. I will be waiting at the cemetery gates for you. Just… hurry."

And the angel was gone as quickly and silently as he'd appeared.

"I swear to god I'm gonna put a bell on him," Dean muttered as he pulled on his jeans. "A freaking cow bell." He hurried down the hall to wake Bobby. "A big one. With a pink bow."

He and Bobby were in the car and on the road not five minutes later.

Dean made the drive in just under four hours. The sun was still a couple of hours from rising, and Dean parked the car behind some scrub trees, a decent distance from the old cemetery gate. He and Bobby sat quietly, as the engine ticked, slowly cooling. Dean was too focused on the coming job to want to talk, but not so much that he couldn't feel Bobby's growing restlessness…an edginess verging on anger.

"Cas is supposed to meet us here?" Bobby asked, his voice tight, his shoulders stiff.

"Yeah. He said he'd be here."

The weight of the silence in the car grew heavier and sharper as the minutes ticked by.

Dean turned the key back, and the radio started humming softly. _Break On Through_ by The Doors kicked on. It was one of Sam's favorite tapes and Dean hadn't changed it in months.

Bobby shifted again.

Dean sighed, glancing over. "Got bladder control problems there, Bobby? Need to get out for a second?"

Bobby sneered. "You're a laugh riot, boy. Maybe you should shut the hell up before you make me split a gasket. One of yours."

Dean would have smiled, but the anger in the car was too thick, and made him anxious. And concerned. "What's going on here, Bobby? What crawled up your ass and died?"

Bobby grunted, still staring out the window. Dean could see his face from the reflection in the glass…and he looked pissed.

"Seriously, Bobby. What's going on, man? You go out there, into this, like this? You're going to get yourself killed."

"You're one to talk," Bobby snapped back.

"Dean is correct," Castiel agreed, suddenly filling the backseat. Both hunters jerked away from the unexpected arrival.

"God damn it, Cas," Dean muttered, glaring and putting his gun back away. "I'm starting to think you enjoy that."

The angel gave Dean a level look. "Enjoy what?"

Dean's eyes narrowed as he regarded the angel. Cas had changed a lot from his first forays into the human world… and Dean could see the very faint traces of humor in him now.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Right."

"So what's the plan, here?" Bobby suddenly demanded.

Castiel regarded him with cool eyes for a moment, then spoke. "Raphael's forces will be arriving at dawn. Those who stand against him are already in place. You two will hide in the cemetery. Stay out of the way… you will only be needed in the event that Raphael succeeds in opening the cage."

"About that," Bobby said, letting a little edge into his tone. "If Raphael opens the gate, that means his followers will have gotten past you guys, right."

"Yes."

"So, what's to stop them from tearing Dean apart atom-by-atom before he can use the rings?"

Dean looked aside; the danger to himself was something he hadn't even thought of… and really didn't care about. He knew from the dark look Bobby was shooting him that the older man _had_ thought about it – and had noticed how little attention he was paying to it.

"The sigil," Castiel responded, either missing the by-play, or ignoring it. The angel's tone betrayed no emotion as he explained. "Bobby, you will have the Enochian ward ready – and when, _if_, Dean is needed to use the rings, you will activate the sigil. The angels will only be dispersed for a few minutes, but it should be long enough for you to close the cage, and run." Castiel hesitated then, looking strangely ruffled for an angel. "I ask only that you call a warning, so that those in our garrisons can depart before the ward is enacted. It is…an unpleasant sensation. And draining."

Bobby frowned. "So why don't we just do that to begin with? Use the ward and blow them all back to kingdom-come before Raphael can get anywhere near any pointy objects?"

"It would be too soon," Castiel said quietly. "There will be many of us. If you activate the ward before the fight, it will wash through the lower ranks, its power dissipating as the lesser angels absorb the impact. When it fades, you will be left with the most powerful angels either still on the field, or returning much too quickly. Also, if the ward _does_ banish Raphael before his sacrifice, he will make a second attempt."

"So if Raphael lives through this, we'll have to do it again?" Dean said.

"Yes. Used at the proper time, the sigil could stop Raphael from opening the cage, but leave him to simply begin again in a few hours. If he does complete the ritual, then he will be eliminated and the ward will clear the field of _all_ angels long enough for you to relock the gate."

Bobby nodded, mollified slightly. Dean knew it was because this had just gone from suicide run to dangerous, but feasible, plan.

"You will have only a few moments after the gate begins to open in which to move," the angel warned them both. "Once the cracks in the cage begin to appear, both Michael and Lucifer will abandon their vessels in order to move as quickly as possible for the door. You must relock it before they reach it."

Dean felt a sudden lightheadedness. A sweeping sensation of vertigo – vague, but there. "Michael and Lucifer… they, uh, are still wearing their vessels?" His voice sounded pretty good, he was glad to note. Steady.

Or maybe not so good, as Cas' eyes filled with an uneasy mix or regret and something that seemed almost like shame. "Yes. I'm sorry, Dean. Michael and Lucifer have continued the fight. They use the vessels as…armor. The longer the vessels last, the less damage they each suffer to their own being. The fight has become interminable, until one losses a vessel."

Dean slowly realized that his hands had started to shake. He clenched them tightly around the staring wheel to hide it. "The ultimate cage-match. Let's get ready to rumble." Oddly, he couldn't feel anything. Not anything.

He laid his head down on his fisted hands.

"But, if the apocalypse is still going on, why aren't we getting hit by it?" Bobby asked. His voice was steady and businesslike, but there was a _tone_ to it… one that made Dean's stomach knot.

"The cage," Castiel explained simply. "It is sacrosanct and inviolate by God's own will. _Nothing_ can get out… it contains all of their rage, all of their destruction. And it will continue to do so, unless they manage to escape."

"So the apocalypse is only happening in Hell?" Dean asked, not bothering to raise his head.

"No. The apocalypse is happening in the cage. The cage was created by God to hold Lucifer. It is a pocket outside of creation. What you know as Hell is only the refuse of damaged souls that has built up around it. Nothing inside the cage can get out… and even Hell can not feel the storms that shake the cage, much."

Dean chuckled, despite the churning in his gut. "Supernatural urban sprawl. It's a bitch."

"So how do you know its happening?" Bobby interrupted him. And that was okay. He wasn't sure he liked the sound in his voice, either.

Cas frowned, looking away from Bobby. "We can hear it."

"Great!" Dean said suddenly, surprising even himself. His voice was almost cheerful. His heart was pounding so hard he was shocked that it wasn't physically rocking him; while a weird, wild feeling was pounding in his head. His hands had stopped shaking, and now felt damp and clammy, where they were still wrapped around the wheel. "Perfect. Michael and Lucifer are ripping each other apart, shredding the vessels to do it, and it means _nothing_." He looked between Bobby and Cas, catching their eyes. "We keep it _there_, you understand me? It can't touch us, it can't harm _this_ world, if we keep them contained. So that's what we do. Nothing else matters. Let them kill each other forever."

Both of them looked at him with pity in their eyes, gleaming like shards of glass. And it cut as deeply as any glass Dean had ever felt. He wanted to growl at them, he wanted to hit them… he wanted to quit – throw them out of the car and turn around and just drive and drive and drive and never stop.

But everything Sammy had done stood to come unraveled.

"God _damn_ it!" He hit the wheel. Hard. Cas frowned; Bobby flinched, but looked sympathetic. Their tolerance grated on his nerves. Sam would have rolled his eyes and asked if he was enjoying acting like a two-year old. _I always knew it was a matter of time before you embraced your metal age, you freaking toddler. _He could hear that voice so clearly – the amused irritation of it. And the love underneath. His heart _clenched_… a massive, physical pain. Brief, but terrible.

He closed his eyes. Drug his control back into place with mental hands that felt rope-burnt and bloody.

When he opened his eyes, he was calm again. He felt nothing.

"Let's just get this done. Okay?"

Castiel nodded, watching him carefully, but not warily. "I will show you where to hide. It is time to end this."

xxxxxxxxxx


	4. Chapter 2b

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. Any resemblance to anyone, living, dead, or wandering the earth in ghostly torment, is completely coincidental.

Author's Notes: Kudos again go to Mikiya, my cyber-twin, for the awesome beta. Things correct are from her, things messed up are all about me. Also: FFN's auto formatting is screwing up my fics and beginning to tick me off. Now its even putting spaces in words where I don't want them, and I can't seem to fix it. Any sugestions on how to work around the auto-format would be appreciated.

As always: any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are completely welcome.

* * *

And I see them in the streets  
And I see them in the field  
And I hear them shouting under my feet  
And I know it's got to be real  
Oh, Lord, deliver me  
All the wrong I've done  
You can deliver me, Lord  
I only wanted to have some fun.

Hear the angels marchin', hear the marchin', hear them marchin'

_~Led Zeppelin – In My Time of Dying_

_

* * *

_

It was like heat-waves.

Dean was crouching behind the mausoleum Cas had picked for him. The sun had dawned, bright and beautiful, and right behind it had been… something like a thunderhead, but without the clouds – just the feeling of pressure and potential, all coming in fast and not caring who was in the way.

The angels were here, alright.

Dean couldn't really see them. Not really. Every few seconds he would catch a glimpse of a figure, a shift of light and shadow, but no real sight of them. He couldn't say how many were in the cemetery, or which side had the bigger numbers.

But near the gate there was a mass of them. He knew this because he could see the effect their presence was having on the area around them. The air rippled, like heat rising off a hot road. It waved and every once in a while he would see… color. A perfect green, a shady blue.

He wondered what it would look like when they started slaughtering one another.

Across from him, Bobby was sitting against a large headstone. A bandanna was wrapped around his bloody hand, and Dean could see him stretch the fingers again, keeping the wound open and the blood flowing. The ward was already painted on the rough, grey stone. It waited only for his touch.

Cas had vanished into the amassing sense of power Dean could feel building. It was the only sign Dean had that at least some of the angels were on their side.

There was a hesitation in that storm-front. A brief pause, almost biting in the way Dean's nerves sang; waiting for the fight, waiting for the reaction/action/reaction of the hunt where thought ended and the body took over. Wanting it. He felt the adrenaline hit his system like a mix of cool water and hot, bitter espresso. He worked his hand around the knife hilt.

He didn't know that he was grinning, but it wouldn't have surprised him.

Bobby just rolled his eyes and watched the gathering storm. He held the Colt. Just in case.

The razors-edge aspect slipped, somehow. Dean couldn't have said what caused it, but the fight finally broke, like a storm rolling over the cemetery. When it hit, it was _fast_. The air around them seemed almost to boil, the power of the angels swirling like a tornado. Flashes of force and intent slammed into the ground around the two hunters like lighting flashing. Dean could hear human-like groans, and angelic shrieks, so high and piercing that he thought his ears would bleed.

The atmosphere felt both raw and seared with power. The smell of ozone began to build.

And out of the unseen chaos stepped two figures.

Dean recognized Raphael's host…but he had no idea who the other guy was, other than it was probably not really a guy. At least, not anymore.

The two walked, fairly sedately, toward the spot in the ground that had swallowed up Sam months ago. Dean felt his body react before his mind, his muscles tensing as they calmly moved through the unseen chaos. He was aware of Bobby shifting, but his attention was focused on the two angels who had come center-stage. His free hand dove for his pocket, pulling out the rings, already clustered together, ready to go to work.

In the clearing, Raphael turned to his companion. "Here. Here is where the walls are weakest. Are you ready?"

The other angel looked…disturbed. "All this violence, Rahpael," he said, and his voice sounded sad. "Did we need to do this? It feels wrong to pit brother against brother like this."

"We do this to save Michael, brother. Remember that."

"I do," the other said. "I want Michael freed as much as you. Truly. But killing our kind to achieve it… it feels _wrong_, Raphael."

Dean watched Raphael's eyes narrow. "It was wrong for Michael to be entombed with the Dragon. It was wrong for Castiel to stand in the way of the ineffable plan of God. We are only setting things right." He turned, and even from his position behind the mausoleums Dean could see the carefully suppressed anger shining in his eyes. "As an archangel, as my brother, you have the right to speak, Selaphiel, but my mind is made up. What we are doing is righteous, no matter the cost."

The other angel shook his head. "No. I have no argument for you, Raphael. If I did, I would not have followed you here. It only…saddens me."

Raphael put a hand on the smaller angel's shoulder. "I know that your nature is not warlike, but you are as much a warrior as the rest of us. Though you are not the fighter I am, you have always fulfilled your duties, to our Father and to your brothers, no mater how onerous you found them. I know you have no desire to do this – but Michael suffers and he _must_ be released. Let me see your blade, brother."

Dean tensed. The angel raised the bloody shaft that he had been holding, passing it to Raphael. Bright metal marred by dark fluid, glimmered for a moment in the bright, morning light –

– then Raphael turned, pinning the other angel in place with the arm around his shoulders, and burying the blade in his chest.

The smaller archangel gasped, going limp in Raphael's arms, while his hands dug at his shoulders. The light flared behind his eyes. Raphael sank with him toward the ground, eyes locked with his dying brother's. "My Selaphiel, my brother. Forgive me. I would have gladly died as I promised, but my skills in battle will be needed in the upcoming war – and you have never been a fighter, my brother. I had no choice. Go to death now, and join our Father."

The light in the dying angel's eyes flickered, flared… and burned out. His blood began to pool in the muddy grass…and that pool began to slither, sliding in a strange twist that Dean recognized all too well.

Raphael stood, leaving the corpse of the slaughtered angel on the bloody ground, stepping back as the gate began to crack open. "Come, my brother. I stand ready to help you."

It was enough. Signaling to Bobby, Dean also stood, keeping his stance as relaxed, as borderline insulting, as he possibly could. He walked around the far side of the mausoleum, letting Raphael's startled eyes track him, and keeping them away from Bobby's location. "I'm pretty sure the brother you should have been looking out for is the one you just perforated, asshole."

Raphael looked confused – but only for a moment. The uncertainty was quickly replaced by anger… and pride. "Dean Winchester. Why am I not surprised to find you once again stepping in where you have no place. You should not have come here. Destiny was never interested in you – you had nothing to offer."

Dean smirked. It was ridiculous for the angel to think that Dean gave a crap about who played the agent of fate anymore. Hell, that had never really been his biggest concern anyway – not until the angels starting pumping his head full of that crap. The only thing Dean had _ever_ really cared about was his family, and it was gone now.

No one could hurt him anymore.

"Nice," Dean encouraged, taking another step toward the angel – and the gateway. "That almost stung. It _almost_ pierced me like a knife through the heart…oh, wait. That was what you did to your _brother_."

The archangel's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Yes, I have lost one brother, much to my sorrow. But I believe you lost two." He clicked his tongue. "That was thoughtless. Give me a second to retrieve _my _brother and then I'll teach you how to better track of keep them." Raphael glanced down, where the bloody swirls had thickened and opened, beginning to produce a vague light. "It shouldn't be long now."

Dean smirked, shaking his head. "Three words, Raphael: Too slow, shit-head. Bobby! NOW!"

He screamed the last loud enough for Castiel to hear. He and Bobby had agreed to wait three seconds after calling to Cas so that his angels could get out of the way, but no more. He ignored Raphael, who frowned, then started toward him. He counted his heartbeats: One, Two, thr – There was a familiar flash, and Raphael vanished in the light, screaming.

Dean stood in a suddenly silent field. The pressure in the air had evaporated along with the angels. It would have been a completely normal morning, if not for the eye-achingly bright white light boiling up from the dirt.

Sparing a moment to hope Cas had heard the warning and gotten his people out in time, Dean lurched to his feet and up to the edge of the ever-growing gate. He could hear something inside, scraping and clawing as it moved toward the daylight, and moved _fast_.

Clutching the rings, Dean hesitated – _Sam_ was down there… he was right _there_, he could be reached, could be helped – but only for a second. Dean knew his job, no matter how fucked it was.

He tossed the rings into the middle of the light. They caught there, like a moth in a spider-web, hanging impossibly between two levels of existence.

Dean breathed. Fought his breaking heart. And did his job.

He squared his shoulders, held out a hand, and started to chant.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Castiel had been hesitant to leave Dean and Bobby alone in the cemetery. They were so vulnerable. A single thought from any of the beings gathering here, and they would be annihilated. It made him…concerned.

But Dean would not give up the rings. And Castiel had no heart to fight him. Dean had more than earned the right to keep them close if he so wished. He showed a maturity and strength that Castiel could not match.

That Castiel had no intention of trying to match.

But the angel had no time to think on his intentions further as the sun rolled over the horizon. In its light, he could see a dozen angels approaching the edges of the cemetery, where Castiel and his twelve waited.

Castiel stepped into the open as they drew near. He had no illusions as to being able to divert Raphael from his intended goal, but he would feel _lesser_, somehow, if he did not try.

That was another lesson he had learned.

Castiel stood quietly, noting faces as the others fell into their ranks behind Raphael. Castiel felt something slow and dark slide into his heart as two of them joined Raphael at the front of the lines.

"Selaphiel. Barachiel," Castiel acknowledged the archangels sadly. "You have joined Raphael?"

"We wish the freedom of our brother, Castiel. I would think you would join with us as well," Barachiel said haughtily. His sword was already drawn, and he spun it almost absently.

"You would free one brother from a trap of his own making by spilling the blood of another?" Castiel asked.

"We have no wish to fight you, little brother," Selaphiel spoke. "But you have been mislead by your time with the humans. You have ceased to listen to reason or follow instruction. We love you, Castiel, but we – all of us – need Michael back. Without him, we have no direction, no purpose. This is the right thing to do. And if your mind was free of the human taint, if you knew your proper place, you would know that."

Castiel sighed. "Killing your family, destroying life…these are never the right things to do, Selaphiel. You would trade the brother you have for the one who better suits you – and risk all of this world to do it. It is not right, my brothers."

Selaphiel looked uneasy, but Raphael was unmoved. "What would you have us do, Castiel," he snarled. "Live in anarchy? Like the unruly mob you have taken up with?"

"I would have you find your own way, Raphael," Castiel said simply. "Do the right thing because you _feel_ it is right, not because it was ordered."

"Blasphemy."

The word was cold and harsh, ringing in the stillness of the graves stones around them – and a death sentence. Castiel looked at Barachiel, knowing that if Raphael won this day, he would never have a place among his kind again.

"Please," Selaphiel beseeched one last time. "Castiel, little brother, come back to us. Join with us and help save our brother. All will be forgiven."

Castiel looked his older brother in the eye. "I do need to find forgiveness, it is true. But it is not you I seek it from."

Barachiel spun his sward again. "Then why do we still speak? Our business takes us through those gates, Castiel. You, and those who follow you, are in our way. Move."

Feeling like his heart had been filled with lead, Castiel spoke the word he knew would start the blood flowing.

"No."

Barachiel was moving before the word had tasted sound. Castiel dodged back, ignoring the burn as the silver blade slashed across his arm.

Castiel pulled his own blade, and the others rushed forward. And then there was no more time for speaking as the battle began. Castiel caught Barachiel's next swing on the edge of his blade, turning it away from his chest just before it could hit. The archangel grinned at him, and swung again, and again.

Castiel was forced back, step after step, as the larger angel pushed. He was aware of the slashes and blows of others around him. H saw when Raphael and Selaphiel's walked away from the fight, their purpose clear. But he could do nothing with Barachiel hammering at him.

Castiel waited for the next strike, and when the archangel raised his sword, Castiel stepped into the swing, catching Barachiel's blade with his own, and snatching a flask from his pocket.

Barachiel glanced down to see what Castiel had – and Castiel threw the contents in the larger angel's face.

As the archangel sputtered, Castiel stepped back, reaching into another pocket.

"Holy oil?" Barachiel asked, confused.

"Yes," Castiel confirmed, and tossed the lighter.

The archangel shrieked as the fire consumed him. It went more slowly than Castiel liked, and caused more pain then he'd wanted, but eventually Barachiel dissipated. He would be back, but not before the battle had been decided.

The other angels were still fighting amongst themselves. There had been two deaths that Castiel could account for: both lesser brothers, and one from each side. Castiel grieved for them both.

But later. Now he turned, following Raphael and Selaphiel into the center of the graveyard.

But too late. Before him, he could see the growing glow of the gate. It's sickly light spread like a disease, infecting the very air with its unnaturalness. He could feel the piercing cold radiating with the light, the way it almost seemed to reach out, to clutch at any living thing it could find, seeking warmth, seeking _life_.

For a moment, he could not make himself move any closer to that abomination.

Then Dean cried out, "NOW!" and Castiel knew: the ward was about to be activated. He had seconds to act.

It wasn't thought that compelled his body to move. It wasn't _intent_, really. But this was a course of action he had been debating for two days. Ever since hearing Dean and Bobby speak with such pain in the kitchen of Bobby's house.

He had followed Dean as he gathered the rings. Watched over him in secret, as having the rings made him a target. He had heard the fight with Lisa, heard the grief and pain Dean shared with Bobby… and the guilt.

And he had known then, as he had known for almost a year, that he was equally at fault for the Hell that Sam found himself in. He had taken actions, too. And those actions had consequences that only Samuel had been forced to pay.

It wasn't fair. Dean had known it, and so did Bobby – but they were powerless to help. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right…and Castiel _could_ actually do something about it.

But only if he risked _everything_.

So as the gate opened, as Dean cried out the warning, Castiel listened to his conscience and did what felt _right_.

As the other angels fled away from the ward and the gate, Castiel flew toward them.

He crossed over the threshold just as the ward hit the air behind him – the wave was close enough that he felt the energy like an electric shock, hot and singing along his nerves. But it couldn't dispel him. It was magic from another plane, its essence couldn't cross the gate.

He passed through the door of the cage and it felt like diving into glacial waters, the cold so intense and so _hard_ that it burned like acid. The air around him pushed and pulled and howled, empty and mean and directionless. The physics of the earth, the existence of Heaven and of Hell, all of these were moot, here. This was a place that was not, and a law that denied reason, denied hope, denied _creation_.

_This_ was the place that angels feared to tread.

And it hurt…just being inside the cage _hurt_, a dull, heavy ache that Castiel could feel in his core. His nose and eyes and ears began to bleed. But he pushed on, racing through the cage, away from the light and sanity and safety of the gate. He had only moments, he knew… and he knew that time could slip, here: stopping, starting, racing forward and even flying backward. There could be no telling how long he truly had on this side of the cage, but where Dean was, time would be steady. The words were short. He had to hurry.

It was foolish, he knew. He should just turn back. But it was the one thing he could do for the brothers, for Sam, to begin to make up for his transgressions. And there had been many. So very many. And each one had helped place both Dean and Sam on the path to this place. He had done things, while under order and on his own, that had affect the decisions they had made. This was partly his fault, as well.

And it was past time that he take responsibility for his actions; as Sam had, as Dean did. This was the one thing he could do that Dean could not. And he could do it, because Dean had no idea he _had_ done it. Dean would not know to wait on him. He would shut the door, no matter what. The world would be safe.

And if Castiel failed to get back out in time, little enough would be lost. One minor angel would be little missed.

So it was a risk that only Castiel could take. And one that his conscience said he _must_ take, no matter the terror that filled him, clawing at him with every inch he moved deeper into the cage.

He flew, staying to the 'top' of the cage, he flew… and he felt his power, his connection to the Grace of God, draining away with each inch. It was yet another kind of pain, another kind of coldness, leeching into his very self and leaving a frost-burned hollow in its wake. The cold emptiness of the place crawled over him and through him like a fungus – alive and dead and mindless hunger.

Castiel halted only once, as he felt the approach and passing of Michael and Lucifer. Castiel had been correct; they had both thrown off their vessels in order to race toward the opening door. Both were too wakened by the loss of Grace, and the constant fighting, to be able to fly, anymore. Had they still had that kind of power, nothing could have stopped them from reaching the gate in time. But they had used themselves up, and burned themselves out, fighting each other. Now there was nothing left to save them.

Both were huge, unbound by any mortal vessel. They surged next to one another, clawing and tearing at each other as they scrambled toward the light. Both looked dull, their inner light muted, their celestial bodies covered with the same frost that was trying to find Castiel. They were gashed and ragged and filled with hate and anger and betrayal, both of them too stubborn to give up their wounds.

They were so intent on escape, that they missed Castiel's presence. Or they ignored it.

Either way, Castiel knew they would come for him if he failed to make it out of the cage in time, and every second made that more likely, as his powers waned in the angelic prison and his ability to fly deteriorated.

He hurried. Heart pounding and lungs barely able to pull in air, he hurried.

He dropped onto the widest part of the cage moments later – he thought moments, at least, but time was strange here and space was as well, the way the edges fluctuated, almost undulating, left him feeling nauseous and disorientated.

The cage here was burned, and hot, and still smoldering in several places from blasts that had happened only moments before.

In the middle of the wreckage lay two bodies. Abandoned and cast aside like broken toys.

The smaller form was closer. Adam. Castiel knew what he would find even before he touched the body…and when he rolled it to its back he was met with dull, glassy eyes. The flesh was already beginning to swell and rot around its open wounds, now that Michael had forsaken it. Still, Castiel reached inside, making sure that the human soul was truly gone. His touch found only the gritty, greasy residue of a soul that had been completely annihilated. Michael had consumed him. There would be no reunion with his mother, no heavenly rest waiting. Adam had been torn asunder, his soul destroyed by the power of the angels, and tossed into the void like dust.

Stomach churning, sickened, Castiel stepped over to the larger figure. Steam rose from the body. Dirty, grayish frost iced its lank hair. Swallowing down the fear, the dread, that tried to rise up, Castiel touched Sam.

The pain exploded in his brain, wiping out his ability to think, for a moment. He couldn't see, couldn't move – all he could feel was the acid burn of cold and a deeper pain, solid, but distant and unimportant and barley noticeable in the waves of agony that scraped away at his very self with barbed, burning hands; and he could hear: _let me die, let me die, before he comes back, let me die, like Adam, I'm so sorry, please, I'm so sorry, let me die too, please please anything, don't let him back in again, don't let him back in again please no please let me die instead let me dieletmedieletm edieletmedielet medie_ –

Castiel gasped, pulling his thoughts free of Samuel's. He shuddered with the after affects of the pain and the terror. He trembled like a rabbit from the shock of it as he rolled Sam over – and met glazed, half open, empty eyes. The human's chest hitched in weak, liquidly gasps. His skin was dusky and looked raw across his face and neck. Castiel had no time to inventory physical damage, though. The soul he had touched was _shredded_. Frayed and burnt, it was on the precipitous of following Adam's into oblivion.

"No," Castiel _refused_ to allow it. Maybe later, if that was what Samuel still wanted, Castiel would help him find that solace; but not now, not here. And not when Lucifer could still wear his meat like some sort of costume. Not when his soul would be lost in the void. "Stay, Samuel," Castiel begged– but there was little change, Sam's soul still fought weakly for elimination. "Stay for Dean."

Sam stilled; resigned and weary. The lack of struggle was not the same as willing life, but he no longer fought for death. It was almost as if that argument, that motivation, had been used before.

Castiel didn't wait to ponder it. He reached again into Sam, gathering the pieces of his soul together as gently as he could, and holding them bound. Sam might still die, but his soul would go on. Castiel promised it.

Pulling the broken body to him, Castiel collected his quickly fading power and flew. He didn't know if he had enough left to make it to the gate, he didn't know if he was strong enough, quick enough… but he tried to hold on to his hope and his faith, no matter the odds. And he'd deal with the outcome, no matter what it was.

That was another thing he'd learned from this man.

Castiel rushed toward the cage door, feeling the strain of the flight and the weight of his burden growing ever more cumbersome. But the light was becoming more pure, and he could see the door ahead… just beyond the two archangels.

The gap, the single fissure that led to creation, was growing more narrow. Dean was closing the door.

Oddly, Castiel felt relief. Dean was doing as he ought. The world, his Father's world, was safe.

And, please God, he was not too late.

He was fast enough.

Strong enough.

He had to be.

Please.

Castiel felt a burst of raw power, a second wind, and he _flew_. He tore through Michael and Lucifer, ignoring the hand that snatched at him, the hot, burning scrape as it tore at his back, missing a grip only by chance. He barely heard the howls as he slid through the cage door. He did feel the slam of the cage, the cold bite of it as it touched his back, tore at his wings…

Then he was falling, tumbling through the bright, beautiful morning. He landed hard on the muddy grass, rolling and slamming into a tombstone. There he stopped, just breathing for a moment. He was aching, trembling, his whole body throbbing and raw; and he was exhausted, and cold, all the way to his core. The stone was warm against his back, having absorbed the heat of the perfect, late summer morning.

He breathed in sweet air, and thanked his Father.

And then he heard Dean, confused and growing angry. "Cas? What the hell? Did you just come out..?"

His voce drifted off, and Castiel opened his eyes to see Dean staring at the broken bundle lying next to him.

"Cas…is that…." Dean gasped.

"_Sam_."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


	5. Chapter 3

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. I don't feel like being witty.

Author's Notes: Thanks again go out to Mikiya of the infinite patients. I think I have written this chapter about 87 times, and she was there for every one of them, poor thing. *bows to her awesomeness* I'm still not completely happy, but if I don't move on, I won't.

As always: any comments, good, bad or indifferent, are completely welcome.

* * *

There are those who think that life has nothing left to chance  
A host of holy horrors to direct our aimless dance  
A planet of play things. We dance on the strings  
Of powers we cannot perceive  
'The stars aren't aligned. Or the gods are malign...'  
Blame is better to give than receive.  
You can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice  
If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice  
You can choose from phantom fears and kindness that can kill  
I will choose a path that's clear  
I will choose freewill

Each of us  
A cell of awareness  
Imperfect and incomplete  
Genetic blends  
With uncertain ends  
On a fortune hunt that's far too fleet

_~Rush – Freewill_

_

* * *

_

As the gate began to shut, Dean felt a strange sense of calm under the adrenaline-fueled buzzing of his nerves. It was right. No matter how bad it hurt, no matter how much he ached to change things, sealing the gate was right.

Sam would have been proud.

Dean could feel the cage door closing that last little crack, and he willed it to hurry the hell up. He could hear the archangels coming, huge and raw and _intent_. His pulse had hammered in his head as he spoke the words – and watched the gap begin to slide together, reality slowly knitting itself back into a whole. Too slowly. Too damn slowly.

The fissure was tiny, all but gone, and he was speaking the last syllable – when something shot through, knocking him down with the force of its passing. Dean cursed, falling to his hands and knees. Automatically he scrambled for his feet and his gun, finding his balance just as a dull, heavy double thud – not so much in the air as _behind_ it somehow – hit him like the throb of a subwoofer, a sound more felt than heard.

He couldn't help the grin. It was the same sound as a couple of big birds slamming into a piece of plate-glass – hollow and sudden. And he hoped to hell that these birds had broken their damn necks.

But if the two thumps were Lucifer and Michael hitting the wall, then what the hell had escaped the cage?

Dean's stomach tightened as his hand worked around the grip of his pistol as he turned to deal with whatever had come through the door before it finally closed. He approached the huddled mass that had rolled until it rested against a headstone. It took him longer than it should have to recognize the dirty brown of the coat, but in his defense he really wasn't expecting Castiel to come hurtling out of the cage at the last possible moment.

Something in his chest swooped as he realized what that meant.

"Cas?" he called, lowering the gun, feeling the extra adrenaline in his system going sour and converting to anger. He started toward the fallen angel, glaring. "What the hell? Did you just come out..?"

Castiel shifted a little, and as he moved Dean realized he wasn't alone. There was another body there. Another dirty-brown coat…just as familiar; a coat he had never expected to see again. For a second everything stopped – his breathing, his thoughts, his freaking _heart_ – it all just stopped as something in him warred between desperate, soul-killing hope, and rational, protective denial. It couldn't be. It _could_ _not_ be…

"Cas…is that…." Dean heard himself ask, with what air he had no idea. His lungs were empty and cold. His voice shook. And then he knew… he knew from his bones to his heart, he _knew_ who was lying there… and no denial could stand against the pull he felt.

Then the world kicked in again, almost painfully. His heart gave a massive wrench as it started to beat once more.

"_Sam_…"

He was at Sam's side before he knew he was moving. He dropped to his knees so fast and hard that the impact made his teeth click, but he didn't feel it. His eyes drank in the sight of his brother, flashing over every line, every detail. Automatically he reached out, but his hands hesitated. Sam was crumpled, and looked strangely still. Steam rose from him, like fog off the water on a cold morning. There was something… dangerously blank about his body, the way he was laying – and Dean's courage faltered. He'd seen enough of destiny and fate to know that nobody was guarantied a happy ending. And he couldn't make himself reach out, find out if he was a corpse, or a hallucination. He couldn't make it real…

As Castiel sat up, Dean's anger reignited like a brushfire, fast and scorching. He glared at the angel. "What did you do, Cas? _What the hell did you do_?"

"What I had to," Castiel replied tonelessly, looking sick and shivering, but up – and he had no hesitation. He reached for Sam instantly. "I owed him too much not to try."

Dean opened his mouth, angry and confused – but the angel was paying no attention to him. Instead he quickly turned Sam's body over, and Dean saw blood…

It was enough. His uncertainty snapped like an over-stretched rubber band – sudden and painfully. It was a reaction that over powered everything else, any fear, any doubt. Sam was bleeding, and bleeding bad.

He couldn't _not_ react to that.

Dean reached out and took hold of Sam's shoulder in time to help Cas roll him to his back.

The flesh under his hand was real, solid and firm, but not stiff with death. It was cold, though. So damned cold he could feel the chill seeping through the layers of cloth. And it was _mangled_. _He_ was mangled. Dean couldn't see much of Sam's skin, but what was visible looked…_chewed_. His face and neck and hands all looked like they had been frost-bitten, hastily and ineptly healed, burned, and then gone through it again, until the damage reached the meat and muscle. The blood that covered him was oozing through his clothes along with the cold. But it was wrong somehow – too dark to be fresh, and too red to be old, and too slow for there to be so damned much of it.

Sam's chest hitched, as he gasped in a rough breath. His eyes slitted open, sightlessly – then closed again as a massive shudder rippled through his frame.

Everything in Dean screamed to help him, to care for him, but he couldn't make himself move. His mind went blank. He swallowed, and tried to calm his breathing, tried to _think_ – but Sam _here_, he was right here, under his hands and solid and really _here_, not just a vision or a shadow… and he was so _hurt_. And Dean had no idea where to start, how to help, what to do _to_ help him, couldn't think, couldn't remember what he should do first…

"Holy Mother of God."

Bobby's voice broke the weird paralysis that had been encasing Dean. The world expanded. His lungs unlocked, and Dean felt his training kick back in. He could help Sam. He could do this. Bleeding first, everything else could be treated after.

He leaned over with sure, gentle hands, and began pulling Sam's jacket open to get a look at what was causing the bleeding. He ignored the way the fabric crunched as ice and frost broke in the folds. Just like he ignored Bobby dropping down next to them.

"Is it him?" Bobby demanded. When Dean didn't look up he grabbed his shoulder roughly. "Dean! Is it really _him_?"

There was so much hope and so much fear in the tone that Dean blinked as the question penetrated. His pulse spiked. Oh god. It was a good question, a _necessary_ question, and one Dean couldn't believe he hadn't asked himself. Biting his lip he turned to the angel kneeling at Sam's head. "Cas? Is it? Is it Sam?" He heard the panic in his own voice and hated it, but this was too much. If this wasn't Sam… if he was _this close_ to his brother and it wasn't Sam and it had gone wrong… and now they had screwed up _everything_…

Castiel looked up, his eyes hard and his body shaking, but his hands were steady where they were pressed to Sam's temple and shoulder. He looked distracted and weary and if Dean didn't know better, he'd say the angel looked distressed. "It's Sam," he said, and he was so sure that Dean felt his shoulders sag. "Michael and Lucifer _did_ abandon their vessels when trying for the door. They failed to escape in any way. This is only Sam. I swear it."

The wave of warmth that hit him loosened the vice around his heart and Dean was glad that he was already on his knees, he felt so weak with relief. But there was something up. Castiel had never been very close to Sam, and he had shaken his hand like _once_. Now he was almost clinging to him. "So if this is Sam, what's up with the clutching?"

"It needs to be done."

Dean swallowed. "Okay. You want to explain why?"

The angel frowned a bit. "He cannot survive the damage done, alone. I'm trying to help." Then he looked up, his gaze remorseful. "I tried to bring back Adam, as well. But he was…irretrievable. I am sorry."

"Not your fault," Dean reassured absently, turning back to Sam. "Can you help him?" He ignored the burn in his sinuses as he focused on attempting to peel back the jacket. The zipper was frozen shut.

"I'm trying."

Bobby had shifted, coming up behind Castiel – and he hissed. "You're bleeding."

"I know," Castiel replied, gaze now locked once again on Sam, though his eyes looked distant. "It is unimportant."

"What happened?" Bobby asked.

"Someone tried to grab me as we fled the cage. They failed," Castiel said, but his voice was short, strained. "We must hurry. The angels will be able to return here shortly, if they have a mind to."

"Oh, they'll have a mind to," Dean said, as he finally gave up on the zipper and just cut the jacket off. "Raphael survived, the bastard. They'll be back."

The shirt underneath was dirty brown and rust red – though he remembered it being blue when Sam went into the cage. Something thick and nasty clogged his throat as he realized the shirt was stained with Sam's blood. Completely saturated. Enough so that he couldn't even tell what color it had been. "_Shit_."

Castiel had gone pale. "Raphael survives? But the gate was opened…?"

It was Bobby who answered. "He offed another archangel. Said his _skills_ would be needed in the coming battle, and stabbed the one called Sel…?"

"Selaphiel," Castiel provided, a wealth of grief weighting his tone. "Oh, my brother. Go in peace." Castiel's eyes closed, his head bowed as his hands curled, loosing contact with Sam…

And Sam's breath caught. His eyes blinked open, sightless and glazed. Dean watched as Sam's body almost… recoiled, trying to push away from something. One hand came up, but whether he was reaching out to them, or trying to push them away, Dean couldn't tell. He began shivering, a low, constant shaking that had to be stressing his injuries.

Instantly, the angel's eyes flashed open. Dean watched as Castiel pushed his own pain aside and took a firmer hold of Sam's head and shoulder again. Sam settled almost instantly, his eyes slipping closed. It was like he had been drugged.

And through the whole thing, Sam had never made a sound.

The silence in the face of such obvious anguish was… eerie.

Dean shared an uneasy look with Bobby. But the older man only shrugged, looking confused and troubled. Dean could tell from Bobby expression that he had his doubts that the body on the ground _was_ Sam, no matter what Castiel said.

Later. He'd worry about it later. But he had to stop the bleeding if he wanted there to be a later to worry about. He pulled at the shirt, tugging the stiff, gory fabric apart. Underneath was a neat hole in Sam's chest – too far left to have hit his heart, but way to close to have missed everything vital.

Dean heard a ragged curse from over his shoulder. Bobby. Bobby had pulled the trigger on Lucifer twice that day. Dean remembered it _vividly_.

The wound was still raw, after four months. Still open and fresh and wet, with no sign of either clotting or decay. It was like Sam had just been shot. Only the blood should have been surging, pouring from the wound in a torrent, but instead it was pumping sluggishly.

"What the hell?" Dean frowned. "Cas? Are these from that day? When Sam went in?"

"Yes."

Bobby made a sound of pure denial. "Lucifer didn't even notice when I shot him. He should be healed."

"He healed up his other vessel, when I shot him before," Dean agreed. "He should have fixed this."

Castiel didn't bother to glance up, keeping his eyes locked on Sam. "Later. I'll explain everything later. But now we need to leave before Raphael and his followers return, and I need to concentrate if you want Sam to live."

Castiel had never been good at sugar-coating things.

"Okay," Dean said. He let go of Sam long enough to struggle out of his over shirt. "Bobby? Go get the rings, now, before we have company. And bring the car up here. I don't want to carry him more than we have to."

"And hurry," Castiel put in. "We haven't much time."

Bobby didn't ask if the angel was referring to the return of the divine dickheads or to Sam, he just hurried.

Dean folded the soft cotton and pushed it against the wound, leaning into it. Sam shifted again as Dean applied the pressure, trembling silently – but his eyes stayed closed. Dean pushed harder against the oddly sluggish wound, ignoring the layers of dried, frozen blood beginning to melt and come off. He could smell it, metallic and overwhelming. His stomach rolled uneasily.

In the distance he heard the car's engine kick over and catch, and the familiar rumble soothed him. A couple of minutes later the Impala drove up, and Bobby hopped out, helping Dean maneuver Sam into the backseat. It was awkward, with Dean trying to both lift and keep pressure on the wound at the same time, while Castiel wouldn't – couldn't – let go.

Dean ended up passing Sam off to Bobby, who was pulling from the other door. Castiel followed Sam into the back seat. Which left Dean standing outside the car.

Biting his lip, hating it, Dean went to the driver's seat, leaving his brother in the hands of others.

They pealed out of the cemetery moving fast, and gaining speed. As they hit the pavement Dean glanced again in the mirror, meeting Bobby's worried eyes.

"He's not breathing very well."

Dean's teeth clenched. "Cas? Can't you use your mojo on him?"

"I can't heal this." The angel sounded truly apologetic. "The wounds are from the Colt. I can control the damage, but I cannot stop it. Or reverse it. The Colt, the bullets… they are _physical_ in a way I cannot rework…they are unalterable. They are beyond my abilities."

"But that's not why Lucifer didn't heal him," Bobby observed, half questioning. "The Colt didn't even faze him. Obviously it wasn't beyond _his_ abilities."

"Lucifer is very powerful," Castiel agreed, not bothering to look up from Sam. "Much more powerful than me. He could have healed these injuries easily when Sam was first wounded – but he was most likely distracted by Michael's appearances… and by Sam's own internal struggles against him. Once Sam put him in the cage," Castiel's voice was almost haunted. "I had not realized how much it drains you of your power. Once inside, even Lucifer would not have had the power to heal wounds left by the Colt. And once involved in the battle with Michael, I have no doubt he focused on the injuries being caused by his brother. Those could go deep enough to hurt _him_. He could not waste the power it would take to heal damage that could not affect him."

Dean ran through all that. "But how could Sam end up like this, and Lucifer not be affected? Wouldn't Lucifer have healed him…automatically?"

Castiel seemed almost irritated, shifting his head restlessly as he continued to focus on Sam. "Lucifer was immune to the abilities of the Colt, but bullets are still metal. When you shoot, they kill. Like the knife. And like the knife, the Colt – and the bullets – are bespelled to harm not only flesh, but the entity within. Usually this enchantment is enough to kill the creature, no mater what it is – but Lucifer is stronger than the power of the Colt. It could damage his vessel, but could not injure him as he hid inside. You saw this when you shot him, Dean. The injuries done to his host do not affect him in the slightest. Normally, he would simply heal the damage done to the flesh to keep the body whole longer. But in this case he couldn't. As I have already told you."

"So Sam's been bleeding out for _months_?" Bobby sounded…devastated.

"Yes." It was blunt, and hard, but it was the truth.

Bobby winced, looking down. Then he nodded, pale but determined. "Okay, since you can't heal him, should we take him to a hospital?"

"No," Castiel's reply was instant, and apprehensive. "They won't let me stay in contact with him. I'm holding his soul together – he faces annihilation if I'm not able to remain with him for now."

"Jesus," Dean said, looking again into the mirror. "His soul will be…?"

"It might come apart." It was said dryly, like he was a fact from a biology textbook; and that scared Dean even more, the lack of exaggeration in the angel's voice. "If it does, he will be lost. Also, it may not be safe."

"He wouldn't be safe? From who?" Dean demanded, taking a corner a little too fast.

"Not him…everyone else."

The car went silent. Bobby shifted restlessly, and Dean licked his lips, eyes flicking between the mirror and the road, trying to see if Bobby was reaching for his gun. "I thought you said it was Sam? That Lucifer lost his lease!"

Castiel looked mildly confused – then he shook his head. "No. No Lucifer. No demons. But, Dean, Sam has been in the true Hell for _months_, possessed by the Dragon. If you could see the state of his thoughts, of his soul –" Castiel stopped. Swallowed. Continued in a different tone. "I have no idea how Sam will react if – _when_ – he wakes. With the powers he had before going into the cage…"

"Not safe. Got it." Dean was rather proud of how steady he sounded as the thin veneer of control he was faking began to crack. He felt the greasy fingers of fear slide up his spine again, as what the angel was saying sank in. Sam had suffered in Hell – of course he had. Dean had been there, and he knew some of what Sam had seen, had been through – and what Dean had experienced wouldn't compare to what Lucifer would have done to his brother. But the idea that Sam had been so tortured that he might not be himself anymore….

He might still loose his brother after all.

His hands flexed on the steering wheel. He ignored the dampness.

"If we're not going to take him to the hospital, we should decide where we _are_ going to take him," Bobby said, and from the sound of his voice Dean figured he was doing a little ignoring of his own. "This ride isn't helping him, and we can't even try to fix him back here."

"I –" The words caught in his dry mouth before he could say them. Dean cleared his throat and tried again. "I know a place. It should be safe."

It wasn't a place he wanted to go…not _ever_ again. But it was close, and it could be made secure…and no one would _ever_ think of looking for them there. With good reason. He'd made it clear that he would never voluntarily go back.

But what the hell. He'd gone back once for Sam. What was one more time?

xxx


	6. Chapter 4a

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: I don't own them. I don't own the show. If I did, I wouldn't be in this crappy town, working at my crappy job. *is considering hitting the road to hunt evil, surviving on credit card fraud…*

Author's Notes: First, a big thank you to Mikiya, who is my first reader and is brave enough to tell me when things don't work. All remaining mistakes and bad writing are all about me.

Also: a huge HUGE thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. I'm incredibly sorry that I didn't respond personally, but RL has been kicking my ass, and what little free time I had, I used trying to write. My deepest apologies, and please know that each comment meant a great deal to me.

As always: any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are completely welcome.

* * *

You know the day destroys the night  
Night divides the day  
Tried to run  
Tried to hide  
Break on through to the other side_.  
~ The Doors - Break on Through _

* * *

It was a beautiful house. Stately and open, and friendly somehow, with its wide, white façade, and many windows. Granted, the siding could use some help, it needed fresh paint, and the porch had seen better days – but that was all just basic TLC. The house was sound and huge and still sturdy, under the thin veneer of decay and abandonment.

Still, it surprised no one that it had been on the market for so long. No one talked about that place, but everyone knew. As pretty as the old house was, it had a reputation. Stories had built up around the dwelling like dust in the corners, thick and dirty and liable to get stirred up if poked at. A house fire. A family ruined. Another family with an elderly grandmother who had taken a bad fall down the stairs. A third that had packed up and left suddenly. Strange noises. Weird sensations. Lights that flickered through empty windows like flames.

Typical of Midwestern behavior, the neighborhood shook their collective heads over the waste of a perfectly good house, kept their mouths shut around outsiders, and, when the sun went down, made sure to steer well clear of the property line.

Dean didn't need to talk to any of the locals to know the history of the house. He had learned it first hand. He'd seen Hell for the first time, in that house; at least a chunk of it. His life had changed forever that night, the boy he should have been – the family they should have been – razed by the heat and smoke, swirling away on the wind.

For a long time he'd ignored the existence of the house. When Sam had forced them to go back, to help heal the infection that had started that night, he'd been…less than thrilled. But they'd done the job, and cleared the ghosts, and went on their way. Just like always.

But it hadn't been just like always. It was _theirs_; their home, their history, their haunting. Dean couldn't just let it go like any other job. He had kept tabs this time. He'd logged into Lawrence's only real estate agency just two days after they left town – and was not surprised to find the house listed on the 'Priced-To-Move' page. The gossip was that Jenny had packed her kids up and took off like her ass was on fire and her hair was catching. According to the neighbors, she'd been packed and gone less than a day after he and Sam had hit the road. The place had attacked her, had tried to kill her _children_. It would have been more shocking if she'd stayed, really. Just because three strangers said the place was safe now? No way.

So he'd posed as a potential buyer, just in case – he was ready to step in if anyone tried to buy the house; he'd outbid them then disappear. Cause enough fuss to foul up the paperwork. Submit complaints about the place to the zoning board. In short, he planned to do anything he could to make damn sure no one ever really got too interested in buying it. He wanted to make damn sure that it didn't eat anymore families.

Much to Dean's relief, the house remained empty. There wasn't so much as a nibble for the next year. Between the rumors about the history of the house, and a price that was out of reach, nobody was interested – but it didn't stop a thin thread of worry from tugging at his gut whenever his thoughts happened on the old place. Ghost-free or not, Dean would never think of that house as a safe place, and something in him knotted up when he thought of children in it again.

Then the housing market had collapsed, and Dean had stopped worrying. Nobody was buying in this market, especially not a slightly rundown old farmhouse with a bad reputation, in a forgettable little town.

A forgettable little town that was only fifteen minutes from Hell's own cemetery. A forgettable little town that Dean drove through with clenched teeth and a mouth that was filled with too much spit.

The old car rumbled through the quiet mid-morning streets, drawing too much attention. Normally, Dean would have secretly preened as people looked their way, as both jealousy and annoyance filled the air – either way, the Impala attracted attention in sleepy little towns like this, and he loved attention.

But not here, not now. As they ambled through the late morning streets of Lawrence, Dean could feel every set of eyes that flicked their way, every weighing gaze. They were strangers here, marked and noted and watched like the unknown variable they were.

It was going to make squatting at the house harder than it needed to be.

But not impossible. The house was in an older section of the town, where the yards were huge and the trees overgrown – and that would provide a level of seclusion between homes. It also helped that the house was rumored to be dangerous. It was one house where people wouldn't go out of their way to worry about strange noises and lights. It was a house that people were _afraid_ _of_, and that fear afforded a certain privacy, too – which Dean planed to take full advantage of, as he parked the distinctive car in the behind the house and got out to help haul Sam through the backdoor.

"Dean, are you sure about this?" Bobby asked, as he hefted Sam's legs up higher.

"Yep." It came out a little breathless as he struggled to keep Sam as level as possible. It was obvious that Sam had lost quite a bit of weight, but he would never be exactly light. "It's quiet, it's empty, it's more than half-way warded already, and I can almost guarantee that no one is going to come looking for us here." And no, he wasn't happy, he didn't want to be here, and he _definitely_ didn't want to bring Sammy here…but motels were just too open. Too public. And almost impossible to ward fully. They needed to hide, needed to go to ground – and Bobby's place was too far for Sam to survive the drive. It was here, or nowhere.

Dean glanced backward, judging the steps. He almost stumbled. Sam's body wrenched as he caught his footing – and his brother silently shuddered in his arms, obviously feeling the pain of the sudden jolt. Toxic ice pooled in Dean's stomach at that soundless show of agony, and without thinking, Dean absently snapped at Castiel, "Why don't you just airlift him inside?"

The angel graced him with a look that could have cooled the sun. "I'm holding the tattered shreds of his soul together and keeping his heart beating, but if you really want me to stop doing that…"

Dean's eyes fell, and he found himself focusing on the way Castiel's hands clutched at Sam. They were shaking. "Right. Point taken," Dean grunted, and shifted Sam so that he could use a hand to work the doorknob backwards. No matter how much he wanted to save Sam the pain of being manhandled, there would be no easy cheats this time.

They got Sam inside without too much more fuss, and Dean felt better once they were behind walls. The rooms were dusty with disuse, and most of the furniture was gone, but Jenny had apparently moved out so fast that she'd left behind the biggest, least important things; like the oversized, generic dining room table.

A thankfully _sturdy_, oversized, generic table. Dean and Bobby hefted Sam up, and the table took his weight without protest. As soon as Sam was down, Dean looked to Bobby. "What do you need?"

Bobby was tearing off the remnants of the shirt. It had warmed in the car, and it now smelled like burnt copper and rot. Dean winced at the reek as he helped pull the half decayed fabric apart. It came off easily, leaving Sam's torso bare… and bloody. Gore streaked Sam's still too cool skin, running faster now than it had been. Sam looked… _grey_, under the blood. Sickly and washed out, like he was loosing not just life, but _existence_. Like he was fading, somehow. The color under his skin was the shade of grave dirt and fog, and Dean had an absurd moment, wondering seriously if that was what was filling his brother's veins at the moment – cold, misty death replacing the blood that he was loosing.

As he shook the random thought away, Bobby tossed aside the makeshift bandage of Dean's shirt. Dean ignored the damp squelch the garment made as it hit the floor.

What he couldn't ignore was the way Bobby's face looked as he took in the fully exposed wounds for the first time. "Dean… this is bad…"

"I know that," Dean snapped back, trying to push aside his rising panic. The holes in Sam's chest and shoulder were not neat, the edges burned and torn, the flesh around them puffy and raw. And they were not the only injuries. The gunshots were surrounded by other wounds – bruises and deeply torn flesh, as if he'd been ripped into by something long and sharp… like talons, Dean realized suddenly – like he'd been jumped by giant, predatory birds. New, jagged scars puckered his skin, white and puffy and _wrong_ – too fresh to be so thickly welted. It was the look of badly mended flesh. Sam _had_ been healed, and it looked like more then once, but it was done fast and roughly and with no regard to preserving the purity of the body, only its strength.

"I know it's bad," Dean continued, feeling oddly numbed by the sight of his brother's wounds. "But you know injuries, Bobby. You can fix this."

"I know enough to know when something's out of my league." Bobby touched the side of the still weeping chest wound, his fingers trembling as he pressed lightly. "This… it's so close to his heart… or his lungs. I can't just sew something like this up, Dean. He needs a hospital." Bobby's voice had gone soft, sad. It made Dean's fists curl.

"That's not an option, Bobby!"

The older man's eyes went hard. "Well, I'm putting it back on the table." Bobby shed his own shirt, using it to replace Dean's as a bandage. He leaned into it, applying pressure. "This is beyond anything I can do, Dean! If I cut into him… I could puncture a lung, or tear his heart! I won't do that to him too, Dean. And you can't ask me to. If you want your brother alive, he's going to need a real surgeon!"

Dean's brain snagged on the word. Surgeon. Sam needed a _surgeon_, not a hospital. Hospitals were unsafe – crowded, full of people who couldn't protect themselves, and run by prison-like rules – but surgeons were …portable.

"Fine." Dean heard himself voice the word before he knew he even intended to speak. "Cas? Can you keep him going for awhile?"

The angel looked up. His skin was pale, almost bloodless, and his jaw was working. The obvious effort he was making was less than soothing, considering that the strain was coming from fighting to keep Sam alive, and whole. "I can maintain his physical state for a few more hours, then he will begin to decline, and decline rapidly. Do what ever you intend to do before that point."

"Hurry. Check. Bobby?" Dean caught the other hunter with a glance. "Let Cas handle Sam. You get some angel wards and devil's traps up, asap. Put this place on lockdown." He grabbed his keys.

"Where are you going?" Bobby asked.

Dean shrugged as he opened the door. "To get him a surgeon."


	7. Chapter 4b

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: So _totally_ not mine. And that thought alone depresses me to tears.

Author's Notes: First and foremost: Mikiya2200 is awesome. The poor little test-subject that she is. All the good, is from her… all the bad, is all about me.

This chapter was weird. I actually wrote two versions, this one and a 'Dean POV'. But this seemed to read better. Any feedback on that would be welcome: keep this POV, or switch to Dean? Because I don't know if this works as it is… or is distracting. Please let me know if this works. Thanks in advance.

And a big thanks to everyone who reviewed… as soon as life lightens up, I will start replying. *desperately wants more time*

Oh, and for the people who have wondered about the title:

_Recrudescence: lat. re(again )crudus(bloody/ raw): To make raw again. To reopen a wound. Modern English usage: A re-occurrence of symptoms after a period of inactivity. _

As always: any feedback, good, bad, or indifferent, is completely welcome.

* * *

Long as I remember, the rain's been coming down.  
Clouds of mystery pouring confusion on the ground.  
Good men through the ages, trying to find the sun;  
And I wonder, still I wonder, who'll stop the rain?

_~Credence Clearwater Revival – Who'll Stop the Rain_

_

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_

Three hours, twenty-four minutes later, and Dean was sitting in his car across the street from the Michael Street Free Clinic. He'd been in Kansas City for the last hour, trying to figure out just how he was going to pull this off. Hospitals were out; even though they was the obvious place to get his hands on both a doctor and medical supplies; but the security and ridged schedules of the employees would make getting away with it almost impossible. And he had to pull this off. If he got caught, he'd end up in jail… and Sam would end up dead. So he could _not_ get caught.

Free clinics were the next best bet. They had both doctors and medical supplies, but less money meant less security. Dean figured a free clinic would be his best bet of pulling this off, and not leaving a trial.

A trip to Google had gotten him the addresses of every free clinic in Kansas City. Then he'd started cruising, looking for the right place, the right set-up –the first two locations were busts, though. The first was closed, so no doctors in house. The second had a likely candidate, but the building was newer. It had metal detectors on the doors and at lest one security camera that he could see – and he couldn't take chance on there being others, better hidden. If the cops came looking for him, he couldn't risk staying with Sam – and he was staying _with_ Sam.

He'd moved on.

His third stop was the ticket. The clinic was a small, brick building that looked like it had once been a store of some kind. It sat in a rundown neighborhood, three blocks from a derelict church bearing a plaque that read: St. Michael's Church. The building which looked abandoned and was covered in graffiti.

Fitting, that the church named after Heaven's crappiest, discarded angel was now a discarded, crappy hole, in a discarded, crappy neighborhood. Couldn't have happened to a more deserving guy, really.

Dean had parked the car on the street across from the clinic, under the shade of a couple of old trees that looked like they were refugees from the years when this neighborhood had been kinder than it was now. He mentally crossed his fingers and pulled out the laptop.

The website for the clinic was already up. The mission statement made a big deal out of the fact that the place was owned and operated by retired physicians who 'felt the desire to give back to their community'. The clinic was open in the morning for walk-ins, closed at eleven for lunch, and reopened at one for appointments and children only.

So far so good.

Dean opened a second browser, and logged into a law-enforcement site using a very illegal backdoor that Sam had taught him awhile ago.

He ran the plate numbers from the cars in the clinic's parking lot. The first was a little Toyota, belonging to an LPN named Mary Jenkins. She wouldn't know enough to help Sam, not with the shape he was in. The second car, a beat up Ford SUV, was owned by a Tyrone Bennett, RN. A nurse was closer, but still, not what he was looking for. Sam needed a _surgeon_. The third car was registered to Sadie McMillan. No letters after her name, so she might be a patient, or a secretary – either way, she wasn't helpful. The fourth tag was gracing a two year old Jeep, owned by a _Dr_. Marshal Degarza.

Yahtzee.

Dean pulled the social from the registration and plugged it back into another site, one often used by private detectives.

Doctor Marshal Degarza had gotten his medical training in the army, where he specialized in field medicine and trauma care. He'd retired from service a couple of years ago, after serving in both Dessert Storm, and doing three tours in Iraq, and started the free clinic.

Dean figured he counted as a surgeon. Hell, the guy was practically gift-wrapped.

But Dean supposed the gift-wrapping was his job.

He put the laptop away, hid his pistol under his shirt, and glanced at his watch.

It was ten-forty. Which meant he had twenty minutes to come up with a fool-proof plan to kidnap a war-vet, _and_ steal enough medical equipment and drugs so that the kidnapped war-vet could perform surgery. In a formerly haunted house.

"Oh, yeah," Dean breathed, smoothing his shirt and eying the building nervously. "This should be cake."

He huffed out a ragged breath, rubbing a hand over his face.

XXX

Marshall Degarza was running late. Again. Damn paperwork was always getting ahead of him. His lunch date would be wondering where he was at. Being late to a first date – a blind date at that – was never a good thing. Why had he ever let Sadie talk him into trying online dating in the first place? He was too old, too grumpy, and too out of shape for this dating bullshit….

His thoughts were so caught up in the coming embarrassment of blind-dating that he didn't notice the man staggering across the parking lot until he half collapsed across his Jeep.

"Shit." He moved automatically. The date was forgotten as he hurried up to the man leaning heavily against his car. He was already guessing about gunshots and stab-wound damage – it wouldn't be the first time he'd seen that kind of injury come into the clinic on foot. It was a rough neighborhood.

The man was leaning over the Jeep, one hand under his body as he pressed on a hidden stomach wound. Vague smears of red stood out against the yellow of the hood. Marshall reached out, turning the man over, trying to get a look at the wound. "Easy. I'm a doctor. Let me see…"

The body rolled limply, and Marshall glanced down –

At a very large pistol, aimed directly at his chest.

"What's up, Doc?" the guy said, and winked at him.

"Shit," he said again.

"That about sums it up, yeah," the guy replied, his voice biting. "Put your hands down."

Marshall instantly dropped the hands he'd unconsciously been raising. The guy straightened, leaning back against the car now, almost casually. The gun was too close and too big, and Marshall felt sweat beginning to gather between his shoulder blades. The doctor automatically glanced around, but the lot was empty. He had been the last out of the building as it closed for lunch. A bolt of pure fear ran through him at the realization. He was alone, and there was no one who would notice what was going on, or call for help.

They guy seemed almost more dangerous in the way he was so deliberately relaxed, posed against the car; and the doctor realized that anyone who happened to see them would simply think they were chatting.

Christ.

"If you're after drugs," Marshall started, "I don't keep any on my person or in my car."

The guy looked a little offended. "I don't want drugs."

The doctor swallowed, those words scared him more than just about anything. He might survive a robbery – he had before – but if this wasn't a robbery his chances of surviving plummeted. "What _do_ you want?"

"I want you to go back inside, doctor Degarza. Now." The young man's eyes were clear, focused… and held a glint of cold that let Marshall know he was no one to fool with.

He was confidant – and he knew Marshall was a doctor. He knew his name. This was _planned_.

Oh, _fuck_.

Marshall shook his head, taking a step backwards. "No. Son, I'm forty-seven years old, been in two wars, and seen more shit than you can imagine. And I know if I go back inside with you, I'm good as dead. So, no. You want to kill me, you do it right here."

The guy looked totally unimpressed by his little speech. "Dude, if I wanted you dead, you'd be bleeding out right now. Truth is, I _need_ you. That requires you being alive. At least for now." He cocked the gun. "But I'm not really comfortable discussing this out here. So close your mouth and go open the door." His eyes were hard. "And don't call me 'son'."

Marshall knew soldiers; he knew people who lived by the gun, and died by it – and he could see the professionalism in the man holding him hostage. He'd been in the military too long not to recognize that look. Guns and fear were this guy's job, and one he was really good at. This kid was not playing.

Marshall shut up.

The guy nodded, and gestured again at the door.

If he obeyed, he might, eventually, have the chance to fight back, maybe escape. If he balked…the guy wouldn't need him. People who weren't needed, weren't kept. More, the quiet voice in his heart, the one that had keep him alive in the gang-ridden slum of his childhood, seen him through two wars, and three years of working down here – it told him the guy was stable enough to trust at the moment. It said his best chance to survive this was to do as the guy said.

He wavered for a second, but that voice had kept him alive when everyone around him was falling. Listening to it had kept him alive.

Taking a deep breath, the doctor walked with his captor to the door of the clinic, wincing as the gun dug into his ribs.

As they reached the door, the guy pulled him to a stop. ""Is anyone still inside? And don't lie, because I tend not to do well with surprises."

The doctor hesitated, but the truth would be obvious as soon as the door opened, and he wouldn't risk a coworker, a friend, getting shot because he lied. Not just for the off chance she could get help. Reluctantly, Marshall was honest when he answered. "Sadie, our receptionist. She was still getting ready to leave when I took off. She was the last."

His captor nodded. "Okay. You talk her out the door; be quick, be sincere. Do _not_ warn her, or set off any alarms. I don't have time to play with the cops right now. And you _don't_ want to get on my bad side at the moment, do you understand?"

Marshall swallowed. "I do."

"So get the door open."

He unlocked the door. He also disabled the alarm, though he wanted to push the emergency button so bad his hand was shaking – but somehow he seemed to know the guy with the gun would know the second he did.

As soon as the alarm beeped its change to inactive state, he heard Sadie chuckle. "What did you forget this time, old man?"

The guy slid into the corner, out of Sadie's line of sight; but the gun was still leveled at Marshall.

The doctor forced a smile that felt like a grimace as she popped around the small turn in the entry way. She had her purse over her shoulder, and he felt the relief of that like a cool wind down his back. "I, uh, forgot the address of that café I was supposed to meet her at."

Sadie sighed. "You can't fool me, Marshall," she said, frowning at him.

He swallowed, forcing himself not to look at the guy who was glaring at him from the shadows. "I can't?"

She shook her head, stepping into the room, her back to the corner. Behind her, the gunman shifted, moving that little bit that would put her in his range of fire. "You're hoping that if you're late enough, she'll leave." Sadie chuckled, as the doctor's heart pounded. "I've never seen you so nervous! Look, you're sweating." Giggling, she reached up and ran a finger over the bead of moisture along his jaw. "Imagine, the big old war-vet, scared of a blind date! Wait till I tell Tyrone!"

He used her proximity to take her arm and hurry her toward the door. "You'll leave, right now, if you want to stay healthy," he threatened, trying to mask the urgency of his words with a playful tone.

He must not have done very well, because she turned toward him at the threshold. "Are you okay? I mean, if you're really this against it, you don't have to go. It's just a date."

They were too close to miss; that fact fizzed in his brain, distracting him. The gunman couldn't miss them at this range. And Marshall didn't dare glance over to see what the guy was doing. Instead he locked his eyes on Sadie's, and pasted what felt like a sickly smile on his face. "I'm fine. I want to go. It's just, warmer than I thought, outside, and my jacket is wool. Now quit teasing the nervous old guy, and get out of here before you miss lunch." He opened the door for her.

She looked him over again. "If you're sure…"

"I'm sure," he almost snapped - he could see it in his mind; she would turn just that last little bit that would let her spot the stranger in the shadows, and, framed by the bright light of the open door, he couldn't fail to hit her…oh, God. "Go on, now," Marshall encouraged in a friendlier tone, but with a hand at her back. "Your husband will be wondering where you're at."

"Okay," she said, looking more distracted than worried. "I'll see you in a couple of hours, and you better tell me _everything_!"

"You got it," he called to her as she started toward her car. For half a second his foot hesitated in the open door. He could run. Maybe make the safety of his car before –

The pistol barrel brushed against his temple.

"Shut the door," came the now familiar voice, cool and calm. Marshall did as told, glancing at the guy who had slipped up beside him. He was behind the door, using it to keep out of sight.

As the door latched shut, Marshall felt a weird swoop in his stomach. He was alone with a man who might kill him at any moment… and there were no witnesses. No one would ever know who had murdered him….

"Okay, we need to get some supplies. Fast." The guy said, popping the moment and kicking Marshall's thoughts back into gear.

So it _was_ about drugs. This was just an overly elaborate scheme to get into the pharmacy. Part of Marshall relaxed… while another part panicked all over again. This man made no attempt to hide his face. That was bad news. That meant he wasn't planning on leaving witnesses.

"What should I get?" Marshall asked. He was glad, _so_ glad, that Sadie had gotten out. He didn't want this lunatic to hurt anyone else when he was done.

"Whatever you need to take care of a chest wound."

That was… unexpected. Marshall couldn't help glancing at the young man's chest…his clean, clearly whole chest. "You're obviously not the one hurt."

"Me? I'm awesome. Thanks for asking." The guy glanced at his watch. He was nervous – but not about the gun or the kidnapping, he was too steady for that. It was something else, something that was grating on him – and it was getting worse with every passing moment. The young man shifted restlessly, his fingers worked around the grip of the pistol. He glanced again at his watch… and Marshall realized that he was _fretting_.

"If you're not hurt, who is?"

Worried eyes slid his direction. "My brother."

"Chest wound?" Marshall asked, keeping his voice calm and professional.

"Shot. Twice."

The doctor took a careful breath. "That's serious. You need to take him to the hospital."

"I wish I could. You have no _idea_ how much I wish I could. But we can't. It's not safe."

"Look, so –" he caught himself before the 'son' escaped. Barely. He glanced at the gun and tried again. "Um, _Sir_, if your brother is that badly hurt, I probably won't be able to do much for him." And Marshall didn't want to take the blame if the guy died – or the punishment for it. "Are you hiding from someone? Because I could help register you under an assumed –"

The guy smiled grimly. "Trust me, we wouldn't need any help for that."

"Okay," Marshall swallowed…and tried again. "So why don't you do that? You know the longer you delay treatment, the less likely it will be that he survives. A hospital is your best bet, no matter who's after you."

The look they guy turned on Marshall was cold and just _done_; he was plainly unwilling to put up with anymore conversation. "Thanks for your opinions. Now go get the supplies you need."

Marshall stopped talking and went. He unlocked the supply room, feeling the guy behind him, like a shadow and a threat. He resisted the urge to spin and check on the location of that gun every few seconds, but the knowledge that it was pointed at his back made his skin twitch and crawl.

The doctor flipped on the lights and stepped into the room, sliding sideways as the guy joined him. Marshall tried to ignore him and his gun, distracting himself by running lists through his head of what he had, and what he might need. If his captor wasn't overstating the injury, then he basically needed a portable ICU.

Marshall grabbed one of the clinic's two LSTAT machines. It had the capabilities of a ventilator, physiological monitor, infusion pump and fluid warmer. That was about as close to a portable ICU as you could get. Though the units were horribly expensive, the clinic had needed them for the overdose cases they often got.

He'd never expected to have to test it in the field, however.

The LSTAT had its own bag, but he found a plastic sack to hold the rest of the things. He took five suture kits. Loaded up several boxes of gauze and bandages, IV ports, and needles. Took a bottle of antiseptic wash… and a surgical kit he'd brought with him from his army duty. He kept for emergency patients that wouldn't make the hospital in time. In three years, he'd never had to use it.

He was turning to the drug cabinet when the guy moved. Marshall froze, watching nervously as his kidnapper reached into a pocket… and pulled out a cell phone. The young man hit his speed dial without looking. The gun never wavered from Marshall's chest.

There was a moment, then the guy spoke into the phone. "Yeah, it's me. …Sorry –"

The young man listened, growing grimmer. "I know. It took a little longer than I hoped. But I think I've got what we need. I'm going to get some supplies and be on the road in five. I'm bringing help.… Cas _has_ to keep him going until I get back. I know. … I _know_. How is he?" the question came out softer than the rest, almost fearfully.

Marshall watched as whatever reply he got, upset him. The man took a deep breath, pressing the heel of his gun hand against his head for a second, his eyes closing.

Marshall took a breath. His captor's concentration had waned… the gun was up… he was venerable….

Marshall saw his chance, and he took it – or, rather, he started too. He tensed, ready to jump the gunman, now, while he wasn't looking, wasn't paying attention – but as soon as Marshall shifted his weight, the guy reacted. Marshall didn't know what had tipped the guy off, what he heard or sensed, but he reacted so _fast_ – those eyes snapped open and refocused on him, sharp and angry. The gun came down as his captor stepped back, just enough to make it impossible for Marshall to reach him before he could aim and fire. And the doctor's little escape attempt was over before it even started.

The guy cocked his head, his gaze narrow and annoyed. He waggled the gun like a parent shaking a finger, _no, no, no._

Marshall hadn't seen anyone react like that – that _quickly_ – since the war. Back then he'd lived and worked with men and women who fought and risked death daily, and they had all had that kind of edge to them, instincts honed that sharply. And he knew better than to try moving on the man again.

The guy nodded a little, reading the capitulation in his eyes. "We'll be there in two," he said into the phone, and Marshall was amazed when none of what had just happened showed in his voice – he was that unruffled. He hadn't even lost the thread of his conversation. "Yeah, I will. Bye."

Marshall watched as his captor snapped the phone shut – and for just a second, the young man looked so… stressed, so _distressed_, that Marshall felt a reluctant bubble of sympathy.

Someone this man loved was dieing. Marshall had seen that look too many times, both on the battle field, and in countless waiting rooms, not to recognize it. Someone this man loved was _dieing_… and he couldn't stop it. But he was hoping that Marshall could.

The young man looked up, his eyes hard and scared and half-panicked. "Hurry. _Please_."

What kind of hard-edged criminal says 'please' when they have you at the end of a gun? And with _that_ tone – the one that said he was loosing…everything.

The doctor bit his lip, feeling pity and fear mixing uneasily in his gut. He opened the drug cabinet, grabbing what few painkillers they had, and loading up on all the limited supply of IV antibiotics, saline, and Ringer's lactate they kept. He might not be happy about the situation, but if he had to go and try to help this man's brother, he'd at least do the best he could. He was a good doctor…and he'd practiced battle-field medicine too long to let someone die just because of a gun.

Two minutes later, he said, "I'm ready." And the man nodded, swallowing.

"Good. Okay. We need to move."

They left the building together, the guy still watching him carefully… still holding the pistol. Marshall carried the supplies, and did his best to ignore the gun.

His kidnapper led the way to a big, black car, parked down the street. He unlocked the door, and Marshall stowed his equipment in the back. Then he slid into the passenger seat after the guy, moving carefully and slowly, keeping an eye on the gun, which never wavered.

Once they were seated, the guy pulled out a pair of cuffs, instructing him to lock his hands behind his back.

One more glance at the gun, and Marshall complied.

His captor reached over, tightening the cuffs where the doctor had left them loose. He gave Marshall a wry look.

Marshall shrugged.

The car started with a rumble that Marshall felt in his feet and his back. The guy had his gun low, laying on his lap – but still aimed at him from across the seat. "Sorry, but I can't risk you doing something stupid," he said, pulling the car out on the road.

Marshall nodded. "I have never felt less stupid in my life."

The guy smiled just a bit. His eyes were wary… and worried. "Good, because I really don't want to have to go shopping for a replacement." And Marshall could hear what he thought was real regret in the man's voice.

Marshall swallowed. "I know that you know my name. What should I call you?"

The young man glanced over, then sighed. "Dean. My name's Dean."

"Okay," Marshall felt something in his chest loosen, just a bit. The wheels of the big car hit the highway. "Okay, Dean…so where are we going?"


	8. Chapter 5

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. They are probably glad about that right about now.

Author's notes: I apologize for the lag between posts. It's been… unavoidable. Also, I'm sorry for not responding personally to the reviews. I am a bad person. As always, thanks go to my long-suffering, amazingly talented cyber-sis, Mikiya2200. Thanks, hun. *hugs* All rightness is due to her, all badness is down to me.

All comments, any and all, are welcome.

* * *

I was inside looking outside  
The millions of faces, but still I'm alone  
Waiting, I was ever waiting  
Paying a penance, I was longing for home  
I'm looking out for the two of us  
I hope we'll be here when they're through with us  
…I'm a long way from home…

_~Foreigner – Long, Long Way From Home_

_

* * *

_

The house seemed to loom to Dean's eye, even bathed in the brilliant, pure light of a Kansas afternoon. The sun kept the shadows small, pushed them into little puddles along the foundation, but that didn't stop the way the place seemed to radiate darkness. It seeped from edges, oozed from the cracks in the siding. Dean eased up the gravel drive, passing into those little, dark pools with a vague sense of dread. The house felt to him the same way that black cats and bad pennies did – an unsettlement, a superstition, something not really as dangerous as it seemed, but always tainted with childhood fears.

The house was Dean's boogieman.

And the fact that Sam was bleeding, _dying_, inside those walls was…not helping.

The Impala bumped as he pulled around the back of the house, and the doctor shifted uncomfortably, working his shoulders. Dean felt a brief flair of commiseration. He knew from experience that sitting with your hands pinned behind you made your arms and shoulders ache like hell after awhile.

"If you promise not to try anything, I'll take those off," Dean said, nodding at the doctor's hands as he shut the engine down.

The doctor gave him a sardonic look. "You're going to have to do that anyway if you want me to work on somebody."

Dean spent a moment wondering if he more liked the guy for being so snarky in the face of a gun, or wanted to shoot him for being a dick. His hand tried to twitch. Admittedly, his sense of humor was a little blunted at the moment.

Bobby coming out on the back porch and down the steps kind of decided the issue. That, and Dean didn't want to have to go back to town after a replacement. "Move," Dean said, surprised when it came out more of a weary sigh than a command. Bobby pulled open the passenger door, stepping back to let the cuffed man out.

"Who's our guest?" he asked, and his voice was definitely more of a growl than a sigh. Bobby was obviously not pleased.

Tough. He just didn't have enough worry left over to be overly concerned with Bobby's temper at the moment. "You said Sam needed a surgeon, I got him a surgeon."

Bobby had taken charge of the doctor as he stood, and Dean took advantage of the help to get out of the car too, standing in the wedge of space between the door and the body – where he had cover on two sides.

And he might need it, if Bobby's expression was anything to go by. Dean tried to look contrite – as he absently laid his hand on the roof of the Impala, pointing the gun at the doctor who was gazing at the empty road in an appraising sort of way, and muttered, "Stay."

The doc planted his feet.

Which was good, because Dean didn't dare break eye contact with Bobby.

"You kidnapped a _doctor_?" Bobby half yelled, half growled. But he took the man's arm.

"Sam needs him. I'm not discussing this, Bobby." Dean opened the back door, grabbing the doctor's bags. "Besides, I'll put him back when we're finished."

Bobby glared but didn't argue. Dean felt the relief of that as an unknotting through his shoulders as he watched an exasperated Bobby herd the Doctor into the house. Dean followed with the supplies.

The atmosphere in the house was heavy and smelled of dust and apprehension. The thick, cold eel of anxiety that had lived in Dean's gut since this all started, began to twist again as soon as he entered the dinning room. Sam was lying on the table where Dean had left him; the shirt that was wound around his chest was dripping blood onto the pastel rug underneath. He looked cold and pale and vulnerable, even with an angel literally perched over him, holding him here, in this life. The fear and worry had been quiet while Dean was busy and distracted, but now, seeing Sam so bloody and still and Cas looking even more worn – now it was awake again, squirming through his insides and making it harder to swallow than it should be.

Cas glanced up from his place near Sam's head, meeting his worried gaze – and matching it.

Not good.

The eel twisted tighter.

Bobby still had the doctor's arm, and Dean heard the man hiss, "Sweet God," as he caught sight of Sam.

"Not particularly," Castiel said, and the doctor's eyes flickered over to him.

Dean ignored both the comment and the doctor's obvious confusion. He shed the bags beside the door and went to the doc's side, pulling out the handcuff key. "Can you help him?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"I won't know until I look at him," the doctor said, and his eyes were both sympathetic and not particularly hopeful. "I promise to try."

Dean let the cuffs snap open. "That's all I can ask."

The doctor pulled his freed hands to the front, rubbing his wrists. Bobby took a step back, giving him room, but Dean could see the watchfulness in the older hunter.

Good. Bobby could watch the doctor; Dean had slightly more important things to deal with. He holstered his pistol and went over to the table to check on his brother.

Sam was still cold, still bleeding, still dyingin slow motion. When Dean touched his hand, the flesh was strangely stiff. Dean fought back panic. "I'm back, Sam," he muttered, more for himself than Sam. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving."

Behind him, the doctor reached for his bags, shooting little nervous glances at them all. Dean didn't want him nervous, he wanted him _moving_. The expression on his face must have relayed that message, because the doctor quickly pulled out a pair of gloves. "How long has he been bleeding?"

Dean had no idea how to answer that. He glanced at Bobby – who looked equally disconcerted.

The doc glanced up from his supplies, obviously puzzled by the lack of response and the sudden edgy quality of the room. "I'm not trying to pry," he explained nervously. "I just – it would be helpful to know how long ago he was shot."

"Four months," Castiel said. "At least it has been for you. It may have been much longer for him. Time moves differently outside this plane of existence."

The doctor hesitated, staring at Castiel, frozen with both fear and confusion. Dean winced.

"Cas?" he said.

"Yes?"

"Shut the hell up."

Castiel frowned, but refocused on Sam.

"Doc?"

He swallowed and looked over.

"Do your job."

A muscle in the surgeon's face twitched, but he moved.

Dean reluctantly stepped back, giving them both room. The doctor took a deep breath, and then moved aside the shirt that was still wrapped roughly around Sam's chest. He frowned at what was revealed. Dean watched as he searched for a pulse, and yeah, Sam really did look bad enough that Dean didn't fault the doctor for just checking to make sure he wasn't working on a corpse.

"He's alive," Castiel confirmed. "And he will stay that way."

The doctor grimaced.

Then he fussed, checking Sam over, and Dean tried not to watch as he prodded at the wounds – but he couldn't help noting the tightness that appeared around the surgeon's eyes and mouth at what he found. But the man said nothing, pulling out his machine and hooking it up. Running IV lines. Setting out tools. He shot Castiel a pointed look once, as he moved around Sam, but when it became clear that the angel wasn't budging from his place at Sam's head, and that neither Dean or Bobby had any intention of making him move, the doctor swallowed and did his best to work around him.

The man handled the equipment, and his brother, with gentle, practiced hands. He was quick, and he was sure, despite the uneasy glances he kept throwing at them. But Dean was willing to cut him a little slack on that. He was working on a massively injured man surrounded by a room full of crazy people with guns. A little wariness was to be expected.

As soon as the machine was running Degarza glanced at the readings and went pale. He fiddled with it, frowning, but nothing changed. His eyes darted between the numbers and Sam's face, and Dean frowned as he took half a step back.

"Doc?" Dean asked, his tone stuck somewhere between worry and warning.

"He's –" the doctor shook his head. Took a shaky breath, and tried again. "I don't think I can do anything."

"You can," Dean said. It wasn't an argument, it was a command.

The doctor shook his head, "The last thing I want to do is piss you people off, seriously; but I don't know what this is. It doesn't make sense. He shouldn't be breathing. His heart is beating, but it shouldn't be. It's like something is… forcing it to keep working. Forcing his body to function. He's…cold. Too cold. The bleeding is too slow, and too heavy. He's already stiffening. He's…it's not possible for him to be alive, not with this amount of damage. He _should_ _be_ dead. There is no logical reason he's not yet. And if I start cutting, he will be." The doctor glanced up and Dean could read the pity in his gaze, the man's unspoken belief that it would be better if Sam _was_ dead. Dead, and no longer suffering. No longer forced to endure this.

"I will see to it that he continues to live while you work."

Castiel's tone was almost sharp. He'd caught the doctor's reluctance too, and obviously didn't like it. The doctor gave Castiel a long, appraising look. "I'm a doctor. I deal in the facts of a body. The fact is, no one can survive with vitals like this. They just _can't_. And I don't believe in faith healers."

"Neither do I," the angel responded.

And Sam's breath snagged wetly, and Dean knew his time was running out. He couldn't survive this kind of wounding much longer, even with Castiel's help. "Look!" he snarled at the doctor, "I get that you're confused. But no mater what your numbers and your machines say, possible or not, he's alive. And you have a job to do. Have your existential crisis later. Help him _now_."

The doctor's eyes darted to Bobby, looking for assistance… but the older hunter was busy polishing his knife.

Which probably didn't help steady the doc's hands as he took a deep breath and picked up a scalpel from his surgical kit.

"Okay," he breathed. "I guess I have no choice. But I don't want to be held responsible when he doesn't survive this."

"So noted," Dean said coolly. "Now do it."

The doctor cut.

Dean tried damned hard not to watch. There was only so much of seeing his brother opened and bleeding that he could take.

So he didn't watch, but he couldn't leave. No way could he leave. Never again. He lingered at the edges of the activities around the table, ignoring the blood that fell, the hurried, almost frantic movement of the doctor. He refused to acknowledge the ever-growing fatigue of Castiel. And when the doctor said 'hold this' or 'hand me that' he did so without allowing himself to focus too closely on what he was holding or handing. And he refused to see the red that was _everywhere_ – simply did not see it, not on the table, not coating Sam's grey skin, not on his own hands; couldn't smell it either, so sharp and so heavy in the air that it was almost a flavor.

A flavor he could not taste, could _not_ – even as he heard rib bone crunch and give way under the doctor's hands while he held the clamp.

Time passed in a broken flow – rushing one second, dragging the next. He had no idea how long it had been before there was a muted _thunk_ as a bit of mashed steel was dropped onto the wooden table.

Almost instantly the bleeding changed, increasing, beginning to flow more naturally, more _lively_, somehow – and deadly fast.

Castiel inhaled sharply, hands clenching on Sam's skin as he concentrated – while the doctor cursed and grabbed for another clamp.

"Hold this," the doctor snapped, and Dean put his hands where instructed, carefully not looking. Instead, Dean focused on the chunk of metal. So freaking small to have done so much damage.

One of the alarms on the monitor went off. "No, no, no," Degarza muttered, glancing up from the hole in Sam's chest to look at the readings. "We're almost though this, kid. Don't do this now."

The eel in Dean's gut twisted suffocatingly tight. But his fingers stayed steady, exactly where the doctor had put them.

"What do you need?" Bobby asked.

"Uh," the doctor nodded at the bag of supplies without removing his hands from where they were embedded in Sam's open chest. "We need to replace the Ringers again. It's the bag with–"

"I know. I got it." Bobby moved. Of course Bobby knew, they'd all watched the doc swap the empties out a few times now.

The doctor's quick fingers replaced Dean's, and Dean gratefully stepped back. "Can you grab one of those suture kits?" the doc asked him, not looking up.

Dean turned and got the packet, starting to peel it open, leaving bloody fingerprints across the plastic. As he did, he automatically glanced toward Castiel still standing rigidly at Sam's head – his own, and more accurate, form of keeping track of Sam's vitals. But his eyes never made it that far.

"Shit," Dean hissed, almost dropping the suture kit.

Sam's eyes were open – glazed – but open. And _aware_. He caught Dean's gaze, and held it.

"Jesus Christ." Dean's hands shook as he unconsciously stepped toward his very obviously conscious brother. "He's awake. Cas! He's _awake_!" Dean didn't care that his voice cracked. His brother was awake while they cut him open and sewed him back up. He was awake, with his chest laid open and his blood dripping from the table and the surgeon's hands _inside him_, and he _should not_ be awake through this. "Cas!"

"I know," the angel said through gritted teeth. "I can't keep him down. I've been trying, but I don't have the strength, now."

"What?" the doctor glanced up, and flinched, eyes wide. "Oh, holy God."

"Finish it!" Castiel ordered, almost swaying where he stood. "Now."

The doctor moved, snatching the suture kit from Dean's lax grip. Dean didn't care, didn't even notice. He went to Sam, easily catching the hand that was mindlessly groping at the wood of the table. Caught it and held it, like he held Sam's gaze, not so much as daring to blink, trying to keep Sam calm, to give him an anchor, something to hold on to against the pull of the pain….

But it was an anchor Sam didn't seem to need. He was strangely… unaffected by what was being done to him. He obviously felt it. The way his hand twisted in Dean's grip, the way he flinched into the table, the way his gaze flickered as the doctor's hands moved – oh, he was feeling it. But he wasn't reacting to it. He didn't struggle against it, he didn't shiver or cry, and he was utterly, frighteningly, silent. Dean watched, confused, as the agony of the moment flared in his brother's body, reflected in his eyes which glazed with anguish – an anguish that was… ruthlessly suppressed. The pain was hidden away, locked down, almost _brutally_; and Sam became still again, every sign of suffering vanishing. Even as weak and pain-ridden as Sam had to be, none of it got loose. The eyes that latched onto Dean's were as unreadable – as _inanimate_ – as a statue.

And that sent a whole new spike of fear through Dean's heart.

He tightened his hold on his brother's hand, stroking his arm. "Sam. Sammy. Here. Look at me. You're okay. It's going to be okay. I'm not leaving."

Dean knew he was babbling. He didn't care. Everything he cared about was lying on the table in front of him, bleeding and hurting and so broken that he didn't seem to be able to react to _anything_.

Dean ignored the burn in his sinuses, clutching almost desperately at his brother. "Sam?"

The flatness of his brother's eyes didn't change. He could see Sam's awareness of his presence, but it was like he couldn't let it be real; Dean's existence was acknowledged, but only wearily. Sam saw him – and it went no farther than that. Dean knew he wasn't reaching his brother; not in the way he needed to. But there was no time to try. The hand under his clawed at the table as the doctor did something else. Pain flickered in the depths of the stagnant gaze; but no emotion rose.

"That's got it," Degarza said, his voice soft with a kind of triumphant relief.

Castiel nodded, taking a big breath. "I feel it. That… helps. His body is functioning more on its own now."

And suddenly an emotion did grace Sam's expression, an almost soft kind of dread that Dean felt all the way to the base of his spine – at least he did until Sam's eyes slid closed.

"I put him out," Castiel explained, a touch of sorrow edging his tone. "His body needs sleep to heal."

Dean nodded dully, not releasing Sam's hand.

"Good," the doctor said, real relief in his voice. "I'm closing, now." Bobby stepped up to assist. Dean couldn't make himself let go of Sam. Not even to do that.

Degarza was efficient. Within moments Sam was stitched closed, the wounds disinfected, and bandaged up.

"Better," the doctor said, studying the monitor. "Not great, but better. His temp is still way below normal."

"That worries you?"

He glanced at Bobby, shrugging. "Maybe. Normally, I'd be seriously alarmed, considering that most of the fluid pumping into him has been warmed and he's _still_ running that cold; but this whole thing has been so freaking _not_ normal, that I just don't know. He can't seem to hold onto the heat, internally. Of course, his blood volume is in the toilet. That could be part of it. And he's shocky, too. That doesn't help." He snapped off his bloody gloves. "We'll just have to see what happens. If his body doesn't begin to regulate itself in a few hours, then we may have a problem."

Dean cleared his throat. "Bobby? There's a couple of blankets in the trunk. Can you…?"

"'Course. Be right back."

As Bobby made his way out, Dean caught Castiel's attention. The angel was still touching Sam's shoulder, but he looked…calmer. Less strained. Though more reluctant to meet Dean's eyes. That stupid eel twined through his stomach again.

"Cas?" Dean asked.

"I can heal him now," the angel muttered, almost guiltily. "The bullets are out. I can heal him. It will take some time. A few hours. If I were stronger, if it hadn't taken quite so much to reach him, or to keep him from death –"

"Cas," Dean almost snapped, afraid, because the angel was almost babbling – something Dean had never seen before. "Cas, man, you're tired. It's okay –"

"It's not," Castiel argued. He was staring at the blood on his hands. And Dean could see something sad and horrible in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. Something almost shamed. "It is not _okay_. I don't know… should I have gone into that cage? Should I have done this? Should I have kept him alive when his body ached for death? Should I have fought with my brothers in the first place? _Should_ I have? I don't have orders. I don't have…surety. What should I do?"

"You heal him," Dean ordered. "You finish what you started. You told me you went into the cage because you had to; because you owed him, because it was _right_."

"But I don't _know_ that it was right. I only _felt_ it was right."

"That's all we have," Dean said. "That's all we _ever_ have. And it has to be enough. It was _right_, Cas. It was. And whatever happens next, we'll deal with it." And his fingers tightened around the very cold, very real hand he was still holding.

Slowly, Castiel nodded. He brushed at his face with a shaking hand. "Of course. I apologize. It has been a…trying day."

"Understatement." Dean glanced over at the doctor, who was watching them with wide eyes. "Enjoying the show?" he groused, but not completely without humor.

"More like wondering what the hell is going on with you people," the doctor snapped back, folding his arms. "You two are talking about healing like it's an everyday occurrence, and _he_," Degarza nodded at Sam, "is just…_impossible_."

"You have no idea," Dean half-whispered, smirking affectionately.

"That's just it, I _don't_ have any idea. I don't have any idea how he could have survived what we did, I don't have any idea how he could have been awake while we did it – and I'm fairly certain that I saw cravings on his ribs." The doctor looked at them both. "Carvings on the bones _inside_ his chest! You want to explain that one to me?"

"Not really," Dean said flatly, feeling the slight amusement draining away. "Look. Don't sweat it. Not any of it. It's not something that will ever be in any of your medical books." He took a breath, watching Sam's bandaged chest rise and fall. "Thanks for your help. You probably helped save my brother's life, and for that I owe you. I'll remember the debt. You can go, now. I'll have Bobby run you back to your clinic." He knew Castiel could erase the doctor's memory. The guy would probably never know where he'd been today, not for the rest of his life. "You'll be back before your receptionist has time to figure out that you didn't just extend the date into an afternoon tryst."

"No you won't."

Dean frowned. "Excuse me?"

Degarza gestured at Sam. "He's my patient now. No matter how twisted this whole thing is – and it has been so _very_ twisted – I'm not abandoning him to bleed to death, or die of infection. You say you can't take him to a real hospital, fine; after what I've seen today, I'm inclined to believe you. But that doesn't mean that I'm going to leave him here like this."

"You don't have a choice, Doc," Dean growled, letting go of Sam for the first time. He didn't reach for the gun, not yet, but his hand drifted that way.

"It's safer for him to have me around," the doctor pointed out. "And, according to you two, he should be healed in a few hours. You can stand to have me around that long."

Dean waffled. Having the doctor around would be better for Sam, just in case Cas was too tired to heal him, or if something happened, and when _didn't_ something happen. But to drag another human into this mess… "You don't want in on this," he told the doctor, "I promise you."

Degarza shrugged. "I'm already here."

"It might get bad. And, honestly, Sam and I… we aren't good people to know. Just saying you helped us could get you killed if you say it to the wrong people. You'd be better off getting out now."

"I've never cared too much about what other people thought about me. And I want answers."

"You won't like them when you get them," Castiel predicted.

Degarza frowned.

Dean closed his eyes, feeling like a coward even as the words came out. "Okay. Stay if you want. Until Sam's good again. But then we get you out of here, and you never knew us, got it?"

"Whatever you say. Can I have my cell back? So I can call my office and keep them from calling the cops?"

Bobby came through the door behind the good doctor, where he'd been listening. He grunted as he handed the man his phone. "Just mind what you say. We don't need the cops out here."

"Yeah. I get that now."

Dean ignored them, taking the blankets Bobby had brought in, and carefully covering Sam.

Sam slept, deeply and heavily. Castiel still hovered, but now his hands were resting against Sam, rather than clutching at him. Sam seemed to be resting quietly. Dean was glad.

Because what Dean had seen when Sam had opened his eyes... It had been unnerving to see his brother so…dead inside. The appropriateness of the phrase caught on something in Dean's chest, burning there. Because that's what had been missing in Sam's eyes: feeling; responsiveness; _emotion_. What little reaction Sam had managed, seemed to slip away from him as quickly as the heat they kept trying to get back into his veins.

Dean bit his lip, pulled the blankets up a little further, and waited for Degraza to be busy with the phone before he spoke. He kept his voice low, a question meant only for Castiel.

"How bad is he, really, Cas?" Dean finally asked, not looking up. "I mean…inside. _Him_. Just how torn up is he?"

Castiel closed his eyes. It was the only response Dean received.

And Dean reached under the blankets, with their old, familiar stains. He took his brother's cold hand and hoped to hell that they hadn't come this far, put Sam through all this, only to find out they'd never really gotten him back in the first place.


	9. Chapter 6

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine... still. The spells to make them mine haven't kicked in yet. Any day now….

Author's notes: Sorry, sorry. I lost my internet connection for the last couple of weeks and have been cut off from cyberspace. It was not pretty. Like, junky going cold turkey, not pretty. I still have the shakes. Not betaed due to technical difficulties and laziness on my part. So all mistakes are mine. The added H/C is for Mikiya, who asked for it.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It was appreciated.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

* * *

Standing on a hill in a mountain of dreams,  
telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.

_~Going to California – Led Zeppelin_

_

* * *

_

Cas hadn't been kidding when he'd said he was running low on juice.

Dean sat quietly in the old chair Bobby had rousted out from somewhere, staying close to the table as Castiel worked his mojo.

It was almost painful to watch. The healing was wrenching for both parties. Castiel was damn near shivering at the effort, pulling up the dregs of his power, forcing the long-damaged flesh to mend; and Sam…Sam lay quiescent, a wax-doll, lifeless and cold and indifferent – until suddenly he wasn't, and even in his enforced sleep he was cringing at whatever Cas was doing to him, recoiling, pulling back from the angel's touch. Sometimes he fought against the press of Castiel's hands so much that it seemed to Dean like he was trying to push himself through the blood-soaked wood beneath him, just to get away.

Bobby had been confused by the reaction – and uneasy, reading something nasty into Sam's shrinking away from angelic powers; but it was a worry Dean didn't share. He'd felt the searing pain of angelic healing too many times. Healing wasn't sweet, it wasn't a relief – it _hurt_ to have your meat and muscle pulled closed and your body welded back into shape. It was a bright, hot agony – though, thankfully, one that passed too quickly to be deeply felt.

So Dean wasn't really worried about the way Sam fought against the angel's touch. If the force of Castiel's healing was rolling though Sam as slowly as everything else had been, then he wasn't attempting to escape Castiel's glory… it probably just fucking _hurt_.

Sam's body suddenly trembled, a low, deep shudder.

"Easy," Dean whispered, catching the roaming hands as Sam began to stir and dig at the tabletop once more. His fingers were already raw from earlier bouts, and Dean didn't want them bleeding. Again. "Go easy, Sam. It's just Cas. He's trying to help. I know it probably doesn't feel that way, but he is."

Sam bucked weakly, trying to twist. Dean stood quickly, catching shoulders that felt like frozen beef – stiff and hard and cool – and pushed him flat before he could pop his sutures.

Not that he was hard to keep down. Sam just didn't have the oomph to put up a real fight. No matter how he bared his teeth and almost snarled, a rumble Dean more _felt_ then heard, vibrating deep in Sam's chest.

"Sam. _Sam_," Dean soothed. "Trust me on this one. Just…just a little more. Just trust me a little longer. We're going to fix this. We will. I promise. Just… trust me. Please."

Sam's eyes had opened at some point, blood-shot and hazed. Unerringly they had found Dean. And Dean met them unflinchingly, no matter how hard that was.

Right now, it felt way too hard.

Sam's weak struggles slowed. Dean liked to think it was because he was getting through, comforting with both touch and words – but he knew it was probably just exhaustion. Sam was still too… inanimate to be responding to Dean's thin support. Hell, Sam had yet to make a real noise, even as he fought the healing. That strange silence was as piercing as a scream, though; and Dean felt it tearing though him twice as sharply. It shivered him.

"Sleep, Sam," Dean encouraged, keeping the grief and guilt and pain from his own voice. Making the effort to think past his own hurts and needs for what felt like the first time in far too long. "Don't fight Cas. Just sleep through it if you can."

He had no idea if Sam understood him… hell, he didn't know if Sam even heard him. The steady, emotionless gaze never changed. But, whether from fatigue or Cas' will, Sam's eyes flickered closed. His fingers briefly caught at Dean's hand before he was gone again. Dean chose to take it as a brotherly gesture rather than just a random muscle twitch. Realistically, it could have been either.

Physically, Sam was improving. Two hours into the healing and the changes to Sam's body had been…slow, but undeniable. His skin looked less grey; the edges of the wide tear in his chest, while still open, seemed to be pulling less against the stitches; and Dean could swear the scars of what he'd suffered were fading gradually away, like frost melting from the Impala's windshield as the car warmed.

Now, if they could just warm _Sam_. The limp hand under his fingers was still too cold. The monitor sitting on the table next to Sam's head showed a temperature that chilled Dean just to think about. They couldn't seem to get his body to warm, no matter how many bags of heated saline the doc pumped into his veins, or how many blankets they bundled him into.

But even that didn't scare Dean as badly as the ice he could see glazing his brother's gaze every time he opened his eyes.

Sam seemed to be running cold on more than the physical level.

And Dean had no idea what that meant for his brother.

On the other hand, Cas seemed to be running too hot. Sweat had begun to bead along his hairline, and his face was flushed. He looked almost feverish; and Dean had no idea what that meant, either… or if it was even possible.

"How are they doing?" Degarza asked, breaking into Dean's thoughts.

The doctor was loitering in the door to the kitchen where he and Bobby had been grabbing a quick meal of fast food - food that Bobby had driven almost a half hour to find. Simi-rural life. Great for privacy, sucked for convenience.

Dean shrugged at the doctor. "All quiet, mostly. Guess that's about as good as it gets right now."

The doc made his way over to the table. "Damn," he breathed, eyes wide as he cataloged the changes in his patient. "If you had told me this morning that I'd be present at a miraculous healing before dusk, I would have prescribed the anti-psychotics myself. But now…"

"Yeah. But now." Dean rubbed his eyes and nodded at Castiel. "You should see what he can do when he's fully charged."

"That would be something; though, I'm not sure I could handle it. My world-view can only stretch so far before it ruptures." He glanced at the monitors, checked Sam's pulse, frowned, and checked the hanging bags.

Dean watched the routine drearily.

"Did he come to, again?" Degarza asked, picking up Sam's hand for a second time and looking at his raw fingers.

"Yeah," Dean said, suddenly feeling more awake. "There a problem?"

"Other than the fact that his brain should be non-functioning from lack of blood, _and_ that after the last two times I set up a morphine drip that should have dumped him damn near into a barbiturate coma – but somehow he keeps waking up and hurting himself anyway? No. No problem."

"Funny," Dean said flatly. "Don't quit your day job."

"Speaking of day jobs… what the hell is his?" Degarza looked pointedly at Castiel.

"I'm a soldier." The angel spoke for the first time in hours. His voice was rougher than usual. He straitened up, and Dean winced at the dark patches spreading under his eyes.

"Right," the doctor said skeptically. "With whose army?"

The angel ignored him, looking to Dean. "We are no longer alone."

There was a knock on the kitchen door.

Dean stood, reaching for his pistol. Bobby came around the corner.

"One of yours?" he asked.

Castiel nodded tiredly, stepping back from the table where Sam was thankfully quiet. "Of my kind, yes." The tone was not reassuring.

"So…" Degarza said, glancing between them. "Do we open the door?"

"No need," the angel answered.

And Dean flinched sideways as a…person was suddenly standing next to him, way too close.

She watched with impassive eyes as Dean cursed, and Degraza squawked from where he'd tripped and fallen to the floor. "I don't like being kept waiting." She sounded disappointed.

"Friendly, or not?" Bobby asked Castiel from his place near the doorway. His hand was bleeding again, and hovering over one of the Enochian glyphs he'd inscribed all over the house while Dean was fetching the doctor.

"Neither," said Castiel, with just a hint of contempt lacing his tone. "Hello, Adiel."

"Call off your dogs, Castiel. I bring news."

Bobby waited for Castiel's tired nod before lowering his hand. While the doctor scrambled up and over to Bobby, Dean carefully placed a possessive hand on the table, leaning slightly to block the new angel's view of his brother.

"I've been called a dog by women before, but I have to say, this is the first time it was before I've slept with them," Dean said lightly, smirking.

"I find that difficult to believe," she responded coldly. She turned to Castiel. "Castiel, I would speak to you."

"So speak."

Her eyes darkened in the angelic equivalent of a frown. "Not here."

Castiel glared, a hint of power lending a sharpness to his lax stance. "You do not tell me where and when we speak, Adiel."

"I did not take Raphael's part in this, Castiel."

"Neither did you stand against him."

"It is not my place to act. You know this. And I had no particular faith in you; how should I when you waist your time on these… pets."

Castiel's eyes took on the brightness that passed for angelic impatience. Dean knew it well. "I owe you neither explanation, nor obedience, Adiel. Say what you have to say, and leave."

She tossed her head a bit, a strangely birdlike movement. "Very well. Raphael is still intent on opening the cage."

"Of course he is," muttered Dean, giving the angel a dirty look. "It's _never_ easy."

"He is planning another sacrifice?" Castiel asked, ignoring him.

"No," Adiel answered. "His murder of Selaphiel has set his followers at one another's throats, with only the most devout sustaining his purpose in freeing Michael. The others have fled and turn against him for killing a brother, as well as his breaking his oath to give his own life in sacrifice as he promised. He has lied to them, and they cry out for vengeance. Few will help him; and among those, only Barachiel is strong enough to be sacrifice – and he is not stupid enough to give his life. Raphael _has_ no sacrifice, unless he kills himself. Which he won't." She sounded almost smug about that.

"So he has a new plan."

The angel regarded Dean like he was a new species of bug – interesting, but slightly revolting at the same time. She quickly turned back to the other angel. "Obviously."

"What is it?"

"I have no idea. As I said, I did not back Raphael." The words were dry, and addressed to Castiel. She refused to look at Dean.

"Great. You're just _full_ of useful information, aren't you."

She stiffened, affronted.

"There are only two ways to open the cage," Castiel reminded them.

"Right, by killing an uber-angel, or using the rings. And if he's got nobody to gank…."

"He'll be headed this way," Bobby said. "Remind me someday to beat into you boys that you're supposed to _avoid_ holy terrors."

"Where would the fun in that be?" Dean ran a hand over his face. He wasn't leaving Sam. No way in hell.

But staying was just going to pull the insane archangel right down on them all.

"Fuck."

"Castiel. The rings would be safer in our hands. Yours…or mine." Adiel suggested.

And there it was. Dean felt anger – real, pure anger – prickle across his ribs. Nothing ever came their way for free, not information, and definitely not help. She wanted the rings. The rings he'd told Death himself no one would ever take. The rings he'd been willing to _damn_ his brother to protect. And here she was, not even asking him for them, not even meeting his eyes, but telling Cas to take them. Like he didn't matter, like the little humans who had _saved the fucking world_, didn't matter at all.

And to her, they probably didn't.

Bitch.

Dean stepped up to her, between her and Castiel, _making_ her see him. "Thanks, chicken-little," he growled, tying to keep the anger in check but hearing some of it leak though anyway, "for letting us know the sky's about to drop. Now shoo."

She glared at him, as if amazed he would speak directly to her. "What?"

"Shoo. Leave. Fly away. Be gone. _Get_." The last word practically dripped contempt. But hell, he wasn't in the mood to placate anyone. And he owed them exactly squat. Lest of all respect.

Her eyes took on a golden glow, vague but there. Her head twitched again, predatorily, like a robin spotting a worm. "Watch how you speak to your betters, dirt-grubber."

"_Betters_?" Dean snarled back. "Wow, even the females of the species are dicks. And here I thought all you guys were junkless. Bobby? You want to kick this chick out of here?"

Bobby raised his dripping hand again. "With pleasure."

Castiel winced, but said nothing, obviously prepared to take the zap of the sigil. The angel-chick glanced between him and Dean and Bobby, eyes glowing with an ever increasing frustration.

"Fine. Have it your way. I've done my duty in warning you, Castiel. Raphael will come for the rings, and _he_ won't ask nicely." She sent a sly glance at Sam. "Of course, he'll eliminate this abomination at the same time, so it won't be a complete loss."

"Get out," Dean said softly, shocked at the quiet menace he could hear in his voice, that he could feel heating his blood. "Get out now, or I _take_ you out."

She glanced his way, completely unimpressed – then she was gone, in a flicker of shadow that feathered across the wall.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" Degarza demanded. He was already reaching for Bobby's bloody hand, though his own fingers were shaking. "That felt… _she_ felt…"

"That was a class-one, grade A _bitch_," Dean answered. The anger was still bubbling in his brain and stomach like acid reflux, sour and painful. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to make this all just stop. He wanted his brother whole, and his father back, and demons and angels both to be only bad fiction.

"She _disappeared_," Degarza hissed, snatching some gauze to wrap around Bobby's hand.

"That happens," Dean answered absently. He rubbed at eyes so dry they burned. "We are so screwed."

"How can she just…disappear?"

Bobby patted the doctor on the shoulder with his newly wrapped hand. "Bitch or not, she was probably right," Bobby said to Dean, looking not happy. "We can't defend against angels, Dean. Not in the long run. The wards will only go so far."

Dean nodded tiredly, while the doctor stepped away from them. "_Angels_?"

They ignored him.

"Maybe you _should_ give them to Castiel?" Bobby said hesitantly. "He has a better chance of keeping them away from the others at least."

"No."

Castiel's voice was more than just tired now, it was…almost sad. Dean frowned, confused, and Castiel sighed. "I asked you for the rings once, and you were right to refuse me. I am not…I have not earned the right to bear such a responsibility, or such a trust. It is not my place, and I will not ask again."

"Cas," Dean sighed, "it's not about that. You know I trust you –"

"You shouldn't," the angel said, and his voice was as cold, as _inhuman_, as Dean had ever heard it. "There are things you don't know, Dean. Things I did. Actions that had consequences which I ran from, that I denied – and worse, that I allowed others to pay. I am not as worthy of your trust as you might think."

For a second Dean couldn't understand the words – he heard them, but the context, the _concept_ of them escaped him. But only for a second, like the numbness that came right after getting shot – then the hollow left behind when the words hit him filled with a tired anger and wariness as quickly as a bullet hole would flood with blood. Castiel still had secrets. Ones that would hurt. Ones he wanted to share.

Dean shook his head almost savagely. "Not now, Cas. I don't have the time or the energy to get into this with you now. If ever." It was triage. Stop the bleeding, deal with the wound later. "Right now, all I need to know is if you can run, get ahead of Raphael and stay there? Are you strong enough to do that right now?"

"I am fine," Castiel stated. The faint defeated look he wore, only enhanced by the shadows in and under his eyes, gave way to a determined air.

Dean believed he was fine about as much as he believed Santa was going to show up this Christmas with a pink pony and a naked chick to ride it, but he'd take what he could get as this point. "How's he doing?" he asked, nodding at his brother.

"He's…healing."

It was true. Even without Cas' hands on him, Sam was still healing, the mangled flesh of his face and neck pealing slowly away like a bad sunburn, and leaving fresh skin in it's wake.

"Can he survive without you for awhile?"

"Yes," Cas answered promptly, and Dean felt better "Obviously the healing is not finished, but he will survive in all ways on his own for now."

In all ways? Well that was…ominous. But whatever. He'd worry about it _after_ the crazy-assed angel was on the other side of the planet. "Okay. Good. Because you're going to need to run…"


	10. Interlude

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine... and…so they're not mine.

Synopsis: What happened after everything didn't end. Starts as a missing scene from Swan Song and goes from there. H/C. Rating for Language.

Author's notes: Stick a fork in it, it's done. Done, finished, caput. I have no idea if I will post the whole damn thing tonight, or over the next couple of days…but I have to find the song lyrics, which will slow matters down. But, just so you know, it is done.

Thanks to Miki (Mikiya2200) again, for being my tester, my prod, my shoulder to lean on, and for just her general awesomeness. The betaing will be hit and miss for the rest of the fic, but if it's right, that's her. All mistakes belong to me.

Thanks for the reviews, and thanks for hanging in there. Hope you enjoy.

As always: any comments, good, bad or indifferent, are completely welcome.

* * *

It was dark.

_It was always dark._

It was cold.

_It was always cold._

It was raw and churning and twisting through him and it was much too much too much too much…

_It was always too much._

Too much cold, too much heat, too much power and pain and hatred and fear and rage and betrayal and time and life and death and too much too much too much toomuchtoomu_chtoomuchtoomuch_…

_It was always too much._

Until it stopped. And it left… the toomuch, it left… and he was alone, blessedly, horribly, utterly alone.

And there was nothing.

_There was always nothing._

And it still hurt.

_It always hurts._

And it was still cold.

_It was always cold._

And he was…empty.

_He was always empty._

And it hurt again, but it hurt like heat, hurt like sunshine and air and kindness and things that didn't exist.

And there was a touch, a voice. And he knew it was real, and he knew it was so far beyond him that it couldn't be here, and he couldn't be there.

_He was never there._

But hands touched and were so hot they scorched him, and he wanted more, wanted that heat so bad some part of him was bleeding with it.

_They never touched._

And the bleeding hurt, and that was normal. He wasn't there. It was just like before. He wasn't really there.

_He was _never_ there._

But it was enough. Enough to hold on to… enough to remember a time before it was too much, before _he_ was toomuch.

_He was always toomuch._

And he slept. For the first time in his knowing, in the existence of toomuch, he slept.

_He always slept._

And eventually, he woke.

And toomuch slept on.


	11. Chapter 7

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine... and…so they're not mine.

Synopsis: What happened after everything didn't end. Starts as a missing scene from Swan Song and goes from there. H/C. Rating for Language.

Author's notes: Stick a fork in it, it's done. Done, finished, caput. I have no idea if I will post the whole damn thing tonight, or over the next couple of days…but I have to find the song lyrics, which will slow matters down. But, just so you know, it is done.

Thanks to Miki (Mikiya2200) again, for being my tester, my prod, my shoulder to lean on, and for just her general awesomeness. The betaing will be hit and miss for the rest of the fic, but if it's right, that's her. All mistakes belong to me.

Thanks for the reviews, and thanks for hanging in there. Hope you enjoy.

As always: any comments, good, bad or indifferent, are completely welcome.

* * *

When you're brought into this world/They say you're born in sin  
Well at least they gave me something/I didn't have to steal or have to win  
Well, they tell me that I'm wanted/Yeah, I'm a wanted man  
I'm a Colt in your stable  
I'm what Cain was to Abel  
Mister catch-me-if-you-can  
I'm going down in a blaze of glory  
Take me now but know the truth  
I'm going down in a blaze of glory  
Lord I never drew first  
But I drew first blood  
I'm no one's son

_~Bon Jovi – Blaze of Glory_

_

* * *

_

Silence.

There hadn't been quiet in…in forever.

He indulged in it. _Reveled_ in it. It was so quiet, so calm and still, both inside and out…

How could that be?

He slowly opened eyes that felt weighted.

A ceiling. Huh.

The air smelled of blood. And rot. And…dust.

It was the last that caught his attention. It was different. New.

He turned his head. Windows, backed by night. In walls. Walls. And he was laying on something hard…slowly he forced himself up, muscles screamed, torn flesh burned… but, though he felt it, it didn't register much past an awareness that it was happening. Because it was nothing, _nothing_, compared to….

There was a needle in his arm.

He blinked at it, trying to _think_…but it was hard. It was like his thoughts were bubbling up from molasses, thick and sticky and slow.

Needles and leads and wires.

Mindlessly, he pulled them free and tossed them aside.

Ignoring the throb from his body, the pain that bit all the way to his bones, he swung his legs off of whatever he'd been laying on. He had to get up. He _had_ to. Being down felt wrong, felt venerable, felt…weak.

He pushed himself off. Standing was a head rush. Pain and dizziness bounced around inside his skull, colliding with one another. He swallowed hard. It just emphasized how…empty his skull was now. How blessedly _quiet_. How hollow. How lonely.

He was always alone.

The thought bubbled up, slick and warm and unwelcome. He ignored it.

It wasn't until the dizziness faded a bit that he realized he was leaning against a table. He'd been laying on a table. In a house.

Where the fuck was he?

Did it matter? At least it was quiet.

He closed his eyes, just…soaking in the hush. No wailing, no explosions, no empty, endless howling. No screams so long and so hard that throats popped. No piercing voices shrieking curses that made ears blee –

It wasn't completely quiet.

He stiffened, numb to the way his body shrieked at the demand.

Someone was talking. He couldn't make out words, didn't care enough to try. The tone was…soft, warm. Human.

And a new voice spoke…and for the first time the ice that held him numb cracked. This voice he knew. He _knew_ it. And he knew this game. It was a horrible game. It was to keep him going, to show him what he scarified for, so that he wouldn't give up, because his hanging on made the other stronger. So he got to see, but never touch, never interact, never speak, just see…

He was a ghost who couldn't die.

And he should turn his back. He should. It only made the other stronger. But even knowing, he couldn't not respond. He had to go. Had to see.

He shuffled toward the door. Toward the voice. Toward the only heat he still felt.

Sam pushed away from the table and started to walk toward his brother.

"Eat."

Dean looked up at Bobby who was pushing a plastic tray of cold chicken and warm slaw at him. It looked…congealed. But Dean couldn't deny the growl in his stomach at the smell, and he slowly realized that it'd been almost a full day since he'd eaten anything.

He took the plate and nodded his thanks as the older man settled down next to him on the front porch stairs. Dean tucked into the food, chewing without tasting, just filling up. The ever deepening night was turning the shadows into velvet and ink around them. The first stars blinked overhead.

"How's he doing?" Dean asked.

"Sleeping," Bobby answered. Behind him, the open front door glowed gently with the lantern light from the kitchen. "Sleeping deep. Doc's dosed him with the good stuff. Seems to be working now that the angel's gone."

Dean grunted, breaking apart the dry biscuit and moping up the slaw dressing with it. They'd made him leave the kitchen soon after Castiel took off. He'd ignored Degarza's repeated comments about needing space, but Bobby's quiet reminder that he should sleep now – so that they'd be ready to move as soon as Sam _could_ be moved – had been enough to shift him from Sam's side.

He'd bedded down on the floor of the living room, ready to face insomnia. After all, how the hell could he sleep in this house?

He'd been shocked when he woke about five hours later, the sun going down and his back aching and stiff. But then again, it had been as long since he slept as it had been since he'd eaten. And he'd slept without dreams for the first time in a long time. That had been both a surprise and a welcome relief. He'd felt… well, heavy and sore, but more rested than he had in _months_.

He'd taken the quiet, calm conversation from the kitchen to be a sign that nothing particularly had changed with Sam as he slept, and used the front door to shuffle outside – the house had no running water, after all.

Now he picked at the remainders of the food, Bobby a solid presence next to him in the dark. His brain felt gummy with sleep that had been too hard.

"Heard from Cas?" he asked finally. Though spoken conversationally, the words sounded harsh in the lazy night.

"No," Bobby answered. "I figured that no news was good news in this case."

Dean nodded. At least for awhile. They could only hope that Cas stayed ahead of Raphael and the others for now. They didn't have long before Cas would be caught. No matter how hard Cas ran, Raphael would be faster, stronger. Dean could only hope things went as planned once Castiel lost the race. "Any word on how soon Sam can be moved?"

"You'd have to ask the doc about that, but he seems to be impressed with how it's going so far."

"Impressed is not the word," Degarza said, walking up and leaning against the open door. "Amazed. Awestruck. Gob smacked. Disbelieving. Fucking _petrified _on occasion_._ These are all words that fit better."

"Petrified? Really?" Dean snorted a little.

The doctor shrugged. "It's a lot to take in."

"And you haven't seen half of it yet," Bobby groused.

"Bobby told me a little about you, what you do. And about your brother," Degraza said, and the chicken rolled in Dean's stomach.

"Oh, yeah?" He casually set aside the plastic dish.

"He said he was a good kid. Said that he helped people. That he was pretty amazing, really. Kind of a hero."

"He did?" Dean arched an amused eyebrow in Bobby's direction. The older man glared.

"Shut up."

"Getting sentimental in your old age, there, Bobby." In truth, Dean was touched. It was nice to know that Bobby spoke of Sam warmly.

"You, on the other hand, are a smart-assed punk."

The chuff of amusement was more because of Bobby's irritation than his words. "Better than being a grumpy old man." Dean stood and stretched, moving through the door back into the house. "So, Doc, you think…"

The words drifted off. _Thought_ drifted off.

Sam was standing in the hall. Barefoot and bare-chested, his hair hanging in lank chunks, he stood in the hallway from the kitchen door, swaying slightly, his eyes drifting, unfocused.

Dean's heart _clenched_. "Sam?"

Half-aware eyes lifted to his. Heavy stitches tracked over his rapidly healing chest. Blood welled in the still open parts of the gash, running in little rivulets down his pale skin. Sam seemed no more aware of that, than of the wound itself. Confused eyes blinked. Focused. Frowned.

"Dean?"

The voice was more hiss and scratch than word, but it was the _best_ thing Dean had ever heard. "Yeah. Yeah, Sam, it's me."

Sam's frown deepened. As did the sway. Slowly the words seemed to penetrate, and Sam almost flinched. He shook his head, and Dean watched his brother's already tenuous equilibrium dissolve.

Dean cursed, scrambling to get to Sam, grabbing his shoulders to keep him up, fearing the damaged he'd do to himself if he fell.

He got there in time. Dean balanced Sam against the wall, being careful to keep his hands as light as he could under the circumstances.

Sam blinked; and frowned; and, in a movement so sudden and so fast that Dean flinched automatically, he reached up and grabbed Dean's shoulder. Sam swallowed, staring at the place where his hand met Dean's shirt. And Dean could feel Sam's fingers where they pressed against him–cold, even through the fabric.

"Sammy?" Dean said, ducking his head a bit to catch Sam's gaze. "Sammy? You okay?"

Sam swallowed again. Slowly his eyes locked onto Dean's, wide and wet. His hand fisted in Dean's shirt.

"I'm here?"

The words were so hushed, so disbelieving, that Dean's throat burned. He knew what Sam meant. He'd been there himself, after a few bad dreams… not sure if he was in the one place or the other. "Yeah, Sammy, you're here. You are."

Sam blinked at him, rocking with his pulse. His heart was beating so hard in his chest Dean could feel it where his hands pressed into Sam's shoulders. Sam shivered staring at Dean with disbelieving eyes. Then shook his head.

"Not real," he muttered, the words so quiet Dean had to play them back later in his head to understand them.

Then, in a moment as quick and unexpected as his earlier grab, Sam swung his free hand, punching the wall as hard as he could.

Plaster broke. Not drywall, but _plaster_…and Dean could see blood on his fingers as Sam pulled back again…

"Sam! No!" Dean let go of his shoulders to grab his hand, to stop him. Sam's balance was bad enough that he pitched forward after loosing Dean's support. He stumbled into Dean, knees unhinging, and they both sank, Dean supporting as much of his weight as he could take.

They ended up sitting on the floor, Sam's face buried in Dean's shoulder, his hands clutching at his shirt. Dean held him as he shuddered silently.

"You're home," Dean soothed. "You're back. It's over. I've got you, and I'm not leaving. You're home, Sam; you're really home."


	12. Chapter 7b

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: I disclaim this. Er…the basic set-up at least.

Author's notes: I got nothing. *shrug* Thanks goes to Miki. ;)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It was appreciated. You have no idea how much.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

_~And Happy Halloween!~

* * *

_

Do it your way, I'll do it mine  
Living on a borrowed time  
Don't need a shove, don't need a sign  
Call me names, call me crazy  
Don't try to stop me when I feel this way

_ ~AC/DC – Borrowed Time_

* * *

Dean didn't know how long they'd sat there, him holding Sam up, and Sam just… holding on. Not that he cared. They could sit there for as long as Sam needed. However…

"Dude. You reek."

He wanted a laugh. He didn't expect one. Wasn't disappointed when he didn't get one.

Sam did pull back, a little, though. His eyes were more aware. Like he was more… there, now.

He looked at Dean for a long moment. Almost disbelievingly. Then a shadow moved and Sam's eyes snapped up, hard and unfriendly… and Dean noted with concern that they didn't warm much even after Bobby hunkered down to their level.

"Hey, Bobby. Look who's up," Dean said unnecessarily, just to fill the air. He'd always hated the chill that came with the quiet.

"Hey, Sam," Bobby said, keeping his tone low.

Sam watched him. His hands never loosened from Dean's shirt, cold and tight. The same cold and tight that was invading the air between them.

Dean shifted.

Sam blinked. Swallowed. And the atmosphere relaxed. "Hey, Bobby." His voice was rough, but the words were clear, and sounded like Sam.

Bobby's next breath hitched. "You look like shit, kid."

A brief flicker of confusion passed over Sam's features and was gone. He closed his eyes, his head rolling back against the wall. "Sorry."

Bobby's eyes looked sad as he glanced at Dean.

Dean just shook his head, patting Sam's hands where they had apparently become permanently attached to him. "Not to be sorry for, Sam. But we got to get you cleaned up, and we've got to get on the road, which means we've got to get you ready to move. Can you do that?"

Sam made a non-committal noise. His chest was bleeding again, a little. Punching the wall had pulled the stitches. Dean glanced up, finding Degarza waiting. Bobby shifted so that the doctor could get in.

"Hey, Sam," the doctor had taken on a formal, bedside tone. Sam didn't open his eyes. "I'm Marshall Degarza, and I just want to take a look here."

Degarza reached out and touched the skin next to Sam's incision. He leaned in. "I'm just going take your hand down for a second, so I can see…" Drgarza pulled gently, and one of Sam's hands unfisted from Dean's shirt and came down. The doctor let go of Sam's wrist and pressed a little against the wound, testing the stitches.

Dean winced, automatically glancing up to meet Sam's eyes, ready to help him through the pain if he could – but Sam's eyes were still closed, his head still back. He didn't react to what Degraza was doing at all, like he wasn't even feeling it… or didn't care; and Dean's worry amped up a notch.

Degraza clicked his tongue over the stitches, muttering something about getting the antiseptic wash, and put his hand on Dean's shoulder, using him to stand up. Dean grunted as the older man's weight pushed on awkwardly positioned joints –

– and then Degarza was on the ground, a few feet away. Sam was starting to stand, shaking, staring at the doctor, his eyes cold… and intent. Sam had made another of those almost too fast moves, and decked the doctor.

And now he was going after him.

"Sam, no!" Dean snapped, pushing himself up, and knocking Sam back to the floor. "Sam! Stop it!"

Sam growled, low and soft, his gaze locked on his target – who was being sat up by a shocked Bobby. The doctor's face was already swelling.

Dean would worry about the doctor later. Right now, there were more important issues at hand. "Sammy?" He took Sam's chin in his hand, gently, and turned it. Sam's eyes stayed locked on Degarza for as long as he could...then flicked to Dean, and Dean felt a thin shiver at the violence, the meanness, he could see shining behind them.

Then Sam blinked; and when his eyes opened, they were empty again. Numb. He looked vaguely, disinterestedly, confused. "Dean?"

Dean swallowed and forced a smile. "It's okay. We're taking the doctor home. Now. Bobby?"

"Yeah?" His hand was on Degraza's arm. It was impossible to tell if he was holding him up, or holding him back, keeping him from making a run toward the door.

"Give me a couple of minutes to get him to the car, then pack it up. Help Degarza. We'll drop him off on the way out of town. Sam's obviously mobile now, and we should have been on the road hours ago, anyway." He stood, bringing a wobbly, but moving, Sam with him.

Bobby only hesitated a second, then moved. Degarza looked…stunned, and wary, but not angry, and for that Dean was grateful. The older man nodded a bit, then followed after Bobby.

Dean half guided, half carried a shivering Sam toward the back door. As they crossed the dinning room, the table caught his eye. It had gone from abandoned furniture to abattoir. Blood pooled on it, thick and congealing, dripping slowly off the sides and over the legs. Sam's blood. And there was so much of it. Gore flecked the tabletop and floor around it. And for a second, it was almost too much to deal with….

Then Sam – breathing, fighting, living Sam – shifted on his shoulder, and it …wasn't. It wasn't too much. It was the past, and it was over, and they'd survived it; maybe not whole, maybe with a few scars, but they'd survived it. And nobody got out of this life unscarred, anyway.

There were footprints, in the blood. DNA. But Dean wasn't concerned enough to take the time to clean. No one would see the mess for months, if not years, and with no missing people and no bodies, it would just become another scary story surrounding the house. Just one more weird event adding shadows to the shady reputation.

Without another thought, Dean pulled his little brother out of the blood soaked remains of their childhood. He didn't look back.

Bobby and Degarza joined them at the car a few minutes later. Neither said anything about having to ride in the back. Or the fact that he'd cranked up the heater to full and turned the vents on Sam.

Three hours later, they dropped the doctor off at his clinic. Dean helped hand bags out of the back seat. "It would be best if you forgot about us," he said, as he handed the good doctor his cell phone again.

"About who?" Degarza asked pointedly. He pocketed the phone and dropped to one knee, digging through one of his sacks.

Dean nodded, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "Good. Okay." He hesitated, then just jumped in. "Look," he started, having to fight not to stutter over the words. "I'm sorry about all this. I'm sorry we fucked up your life."

The older man huffed, glaring up at him. The grey in his hair glimmered in the streetlight. "You did not fuck up anybody's life. You did what you had to do to help you brother. Besides, you guys were probably less dangerous than the blind date I was supposed to meet. Here." He pulled a wrapped package out of the bag he'd been digging through and stood, handing it to Dean. "These are for him. Antibiotics. Painkillers. Emergency crap. The stitches will need to come out…probably sooner rather then later, at the rate he's healing. Can you handle that?"

Dean swallowed the laugh. "Yeah, I think we'll be okay with that."

Degarza nodded, his face serious. "Take care of yourselves. And if you boys come through here, needing any help, you know where I am,_ tu entiendes_?"

"Yes, Sir." Dean smiled.

"No guns next time, though."

"No, Sir."

"Good. Now go away. I don't know who you are, and you're killing the buzz from my extended date."

Dean laid a hand on the Impala, feeling the vibration of its idling engine as a comfort. "Degarza? Thanks, man."

"Go. Away."

Grinning, Dean went.

Sam was asleep again, head leaning against the window. His position so familiar, so right, that it sent a warmth running through Dean. Bobby dozed off and on in the back.

They were running. Shit would soon be hitting the fan – Cas could only stay ahead of Raphael for so long. And so they were running. Again.

But they were together. That was…

Worth the running.

Then he pushed the peddle down a little harder.


	13. Chapter 8

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. SO not mine.

Author's notes: Plot! OMG! o0. It's been so long!

Thanks goes to Miki, as always. The best friend/chat-buddy/cohort-in-fic/cyber-twin around. ;)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It was appreciated. You have no idea how much.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

* * *

No one knows what it's like, to be hated,  
to be fated to telling only lies.  
But my dreams, they aren't as empty  
as my conscience seems to be.  
I have hours, only lonely.  
My love is vengeance  
That's never free.  
No one knows what it's like, to feel these feelings  
like I do.  
And I blame you.

_~ The Who – Behind Blue Eyes_

_

* * *

_

Castiel was…tired.

Angels don't suffer fatigue… but even so, he ached with shear exhaustion. As much as he wanted to keep moving, offering Dean more time, eventually he simply couldn't. He had to…rest.

How the others would sneer at him, at his weakness. But there had been too much energy expended over too brief a time. He'd never completely recovered from his time in the cage.

He shuddered again, even now, remembering the creeping sensation of that strangely coherent cold that had crept over him. The way it had dug into him, into the flesh of his host, into his own celestial body – the way it had looked for openings into his very _self_.

Nausea stirred sluggishly in Castiel's stomach. It was _wrong_. That whole place was _wrong_. And Lucifer had survived there, in that empty chaos, in that raging stillness, for so very long….

Was it any wonder his elder brother was insane?

Castiel walked along the beach, wrapping his arms around himself. The sun was sinking, its light setting the sea on fire. Africa was beautiful at sunset.

He would have to retreat to Heaven to heal. And he needed healing. His back burned and throbbed from the near-miss of the grabbing hand. Something had torn through him, and his 'wing' felt…wrong. His head ached from the cage. From keeping a soul from disintegrating. And his powers were exhausted from fighting the influence of the Colt to heal Samuel. He should go home, where he could recharge, where his siblings would care for him.

But he owed the Winchesters too much to stop. Wherever this led them, so he would follow.

Even if it delivered him into the hands of his enemy.

"Hello, Raphael."

The archangel manifested behind him – silent as a shadow, powerful as a storm. "Castiel. You are good at knowing where we all are. I had forgotten."

Castiel shrugged. "It is my gift." The ocean was, for this moment, as much light as water. It humbled him.

"It is a valuable gift. None could be lost when you watched over them," Raphael praised. Castiel was not fooled. Raphael had never offered praise to any save those he wanted something from. "But now you are the one who is lost. Help me help you, little brother. Let me find you."

Castiel sighed, turning his back to the beautiful mystery of the sunset, wondering if it would the last thing of beauty he would ever see. "I know where I am, Raphael. And though I may not know where this path leads, I know those who walk with me. Their number does not include you."

"So you admit that you would choose the _animals_ over your brothers? Not even an animal, but that…_thing_. That half-blooded freak? That _abomination_? You would truly pick him over freeing Michael?"

"I would pick the ones who have always done their best to _help_ others. How long has it been since any of our kind could make that claim?"

"You think the idiot beasts _help_?" Raphael almost purred. "They deal with demons and sell their souls like cheep trinkets. How can they help anything?"

"They sacrifice," Castiel responded calmly. "They give up everything for each other, for people they don't even know. They fight to stop the pain and fear and suffering of others. They bleed to keep others whole. And, yes, they make mistakes. They loose faith and hope and get lost sometimes. But they own those mistakes – and they do their best to make it right, no mater the cost. When have we ever done the same?"

Raphael's eyes glimmered in the dusk. "Tell me, little brother, did you own your mistakes? Do the Winchesters know the part _you_ played? Do they know what you did? _All_ that you did, before you turned traitor on our Father's plan? On Michael?" He stepped closer. "And have you asked yourself what they will do when they find out?" The promise of the words was blatant.

Castiel closed his eyes. He was so tired. He sank into the sand, in effect kneeling before Raphael, though he faced the side, where he could see the ocean. "Which is why I can not listen to you anymore, brother. I followed orders, and damaged two souls irreparably. That could not be God's will. That is not _right_. And I will not follow so blindly again."

Raphael's features twisted, his beauty souring as he became only anger and hatred once again. "God is _dead_, Castiel. And we are alone. As we have been for a millennia. And I _will_ save our brother and finish our Father's great work. You will not stop me. Now, I'll give you one chance. Give me the rings, and I will spare you, for a time at least. Do not, and I will take them from you, tearing you apart bit by bit until I find them."

Castiel smiled, soft and amused. "And, if I don't have them, Raphael?"

Raphael's eyes glittered. "Adiel said that Dean Winchester had the rings, and would not give them to her. Then you flew from his side, running as hard and as fast as you could. Why would you do that if you did not have the rings?"

The smile turned into a smirk. "Dean Winchester was loathe to give them to anyone, including me. But he knew, if I ran from you hard enough, you would chase – like any predator. He knew you would assume I carried the rings. The 'idiot beast' outthought you, brother."

Raphael's eyes widened as the truth of Castiel's words hit him. The archangel threw back his head and shrieked. Lightening cracked the clear sky, striking the ocean and the beach – boiling water into steam and melting sand into glass.

Castiel watched impassively until Raphael had finished. Raphael stalked over, leaning over him. Castiel could see the first of the evening stars glimmering behind Raphael's shoulders.

"Winchester still has the rings?"

Castiel wondered vaguely if he was about to die. He was somewhat surprised that he felt so little fear. "If he would not give them to _me_, then he would not part with them."

Raphael's aura flared and spit with his anger. "I will kill him, and that monster he calls brother. And then I will free Michael, and this mud-hole will end." Raphael's eyes flickered at Castiel. "But you, I will spare for now. You will live to see the end of all things. You will weep for the loss of all you cared for. And then, when you are broken, _then_ I will send you to meet our Father."

Raphael was gone as quickly as he had appeared, fading into the growing night.

Castiel closed his eyes, taking a long, steadying breath.

Then opened his hand, revealing the four rings, clutched in his palm.

He'd never lied. Raphael would have tasted the lie as soon as it crossed his tongue. So Castiel had never lied. He never said that he didn't have the rings – Raphael had assumed…just like Dean had said he would. _"Don't try to hide them until after, Cas,"_ Dean had instructed. _"That bastard will check every place he sees you stop. So just _run_. Run until you can't. Then let him think _I_ have the rings. That I never gave them to you. Just ask him what would happen if you _didn't_ have them, and he'll do the rest."_

Dean had known – known that if Castiel ran, Raphael would follow, giving him and Sam time to hide. He had known that Raphael could be manipulated. Had taken the risk that Castiel would stand strong when faced with his brother's fury.

Dean Winchester had trusted him. Dean had faith in him.

But then again, Dean had no idea what Castiel had done, to him – and to his brother.

Castiel looked over the ocean, cool and dark and fathomless now that night had fallen.

But the stars were pretty. Distant, but lovely just the same.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Dean's number.


	14. Chapter 9

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. SO not mine.

Author's notes: Thanks goes to Miki, as always, fastest beta in the west. She went above and beyond with this one.

Okay, so. As much as I am *adoring* the reviews (and I am, you guys are awesome and that can't be stated often enough. Seriously.)…I'm starting to get terrified that I'm going to disappoint people. See, I know where this ends, and I'm having doubts, but for the life of me, I can't figure out how to fix it …so I'm going to post the whole thing over today and tonight – and hide. You guys are great…and now you don't have to wait and wait and wait…you can just read. ;)

And I'll say it again: Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It was appreciated. You have no idea how much.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

* * *

Whoa, thought it was a nightmare,  
Lo, it's all so true,  
They told me, "Don't go walkin' slow  
'Cause Devil's on the loose."

Better run through the jungle,  
Better run through the jungle,  
Better run through the jungle,  
Whoa, Don't look back to see.

Thought I heard a rumblin'  
Callin' my name,  
Two hundred million guns are loaded  
Satan cries, "Take aim!"

_~Creedence Clearwater Revival – Run Through the Jungle_

_

* * *

_

Dean drove until the sun was up and bright. Then he found a motel and pulled off.

Bobby roused in the back. "We stopping?"

"Just for a couple of hours. We need to get Sam cleaned up."

"You sure that's wise?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "If we don't, I'm not going to be able to drive past the watering eyes and the nausea. He smells like a dead possum left in the sun for a few days."

"I can hear you," Sam said softly, not moving. Not even opening his eyes. The voice was expressionless. Not offended, just providing information.

"Am I wrong?"

"No." His throat sounded raw and sore.

"Then no argument. We can take a couple of hours. We haven't heard from Cas yet, anyway. We should be okay."

Bobby checked them in, getting two rooms, so that they'd be able to clean up faster. Sam was still shaky as Dean levered him from the car, but he was getting better. "Thank god for angel healing," Dean said ironically. "Another day or so and we can pull those stitches."

Sam ignored him. Didn't even seem to hear him. Barefoot and bare-chested, Sam was conspicuous as they hauled him toward the room. Dean was glad the rooms were in the back, away from the road and passing observers.

"Bobby, there's a bag of Sam's stuff in the trunk…" He'd never taken it out. There was nowhere to leave it.

"Got it."

The room was the same tasteless, visual accident as always. Bobby dropped the bag on the floor as they came in. "I'll give you boys some space." He looked at Dean. "I'll be next door if you need me."

"Okay. Thanks, Bobby."

"I wasn't any happier in that car than you. Just…take care of your brother."

The door slammed as Bobby left…and Dean was suddenly alone with his brother.

And for a second…he had no idea what to do. He wanted to shake him. He wanted to…talk to him. He wanted to hug him and punch him and wrap him in cotton wool and never let him out of his sight again.

First things first, though.

"Shower."

Dean steered Sam into the bathroom, and, after a moment's thought, he turned on the water. The way Sam was _not_ reacting to pain, he might burn himself if Dean let him run his own water. "There," he muttered when the tap hit the right temperature. "Leave it there, okay?"

Sam nodded disinterestedly.

"I'll have fresh clothes out here for you… You going to be alright? By yourself?"

Sam looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, Dean didn't have a _clue_ what he was thinking. He almost didn't recognize his little brother in those blank eyes. And that scared him more than anything.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to shake it off. "Okay, then. I'll leave you to it. I'll be right outside, just shout if you need me."

Feeling uneasy, Dean glanced around the room. No windows. Somehow that made him feel a little better… though not much.

Unable to come up with a reason to linger, no matter how much he wanted to, Dean stepped out of the room. "Take your time," he told his brother, and shut the door while Sam stood staring at the falling water, motionless.

Damn that was creepy. _Sam_ was creepy – emotionless and…eerie. But Sam had been in Hell. In a Hell that went beyond what Dean had known… beyond anything Dean _wanted_ to know. He was out less than a few hours. Hurting; still healing. He was bound to be a bit off.

The sound of the shower beat on behind the closed door. Dean didn't even know if Sam had even gotten in. Didn't know if he needed help. Didn't know what he was doing; if he was just standing there, staring into the mirror, his eyes beginning to glow yellow. Or white…

Enough. Dean huffed at himself, flopping down on the bed and pulling an arm over his eyes, purposely not watching the bathroom door. This had to stop _now_. He'd spent the majority of the last few years watching Sam, waiting for him to turn. His father had driven a wedge between them. Oh, he hadn't meant to. He'd only meant to prepare his oldest son for what was coming, but it had created a crack between them, one that had slowly widened until it was as far and deep as the chiasm between heaven and hell. When their dad had whispered that he would either have to save Sam, or kill him – it had warped something between them, began corroding the trust that had once been so automatic. After all, how could you trust someone who might go bad…who you might have to kill? How do you share your pain with someone who might someday use it against you? How do you love someone who might, one day, turn on you?

Simple answer: you can't.

So, after Dad had died, instead of grieving _with_ his brother, he'd pushed him away. Instead of letting Sam feel their dad's loss, instead of letting Sam be human, he'd run him down, kept him less than. He'd had too, to keep his sanity. Sam was the only person who could get that close to him… and he was the one person Dean couldn't afford closeness with. It was a weakness Dean had _had_ to fix.

From that point on, he'd spent more time watching Sam than listening to him. More time being his father's good son rather than his brother's sibling. And what had it gotten them? The same thing it had gotten their father: a bad deal and an angry Sam.

Well, it stopped _now_. There was no reason to think his brother had gone all evil in the bathroom. None. Hell, Dean knew how it felt to get back upstairs, and he knew it was more likely that Sam had broken the mirror and used it to slit his wrists just to get away from the memories, than become…

Oh, _Jesus Christ_…Dean snarled at himself as the thought quickened his pulse, instantly and automatically. He was exasperated by the way his mind was rambling. Sam wasn't going to kill himself. His brother had been strong enough to fight off Lucifer himself. Sam wouldn't break now. He was stronger than that; stronger than Dean had ever known. He had to have some faith in him, in Sam's strength. Faith that Sam was a good, strong, loving person – the kind of faith in Sam that had once been as instinctive and unshakable for Dean as his love for his family. Faith that, had he shown it two years ago, none of this would ever have happened.

True as that was, it didn't stop his heart from beating unreasonably fast. Dean fought the urge to get up and go knock on the bathroom door. Sam had been in there for awhile now; alone in there, and quiet. He turned his head to stare at the door, debating – watching as steam seeped slowly out from under the crack, thick and white. Steam from very hot water. _Scalding_ hot water.

"Shit." Dean practically jumped to the door, pushing it open. "Sam?"

Dean was momentarily blinded by the wave of condensation that pushed through the door. "Sammy?" he called again, worried.

There was a pause, one that had Dean's hands clenching into fists, then: "I'm fine, Dean."

Fine hell. The air cleared, and he could see Sam standing under the scalding water, shivering as his skin slowly burned.

"Fuck. Sam…" Dean snapped off the water, snatching up the towel he'd laid out and pushing it at his brother. "Why did you mess with the water?"

"I…." Sam swallowed, fixing the towel, sagging against the tiles. The shivering got worse. His eyes were closed. "It was cold. Cold. And I couldn't get warm…and it won't stop, won't shut-up…" his voice, so sad, so lost, drifted off – then the shivering stopped as if a switch had been flipped. His eyes opened, and they were…blank again. And that scared Dean more than anything. "Sorry."

Dean took a slow breath, reminding himself to be patient. Reminding himself not to take his fear out on the brother who was not able to handle it right now. It wasn't easy. "It's okay. Not a problem. Well, slight problem, as in first degree burns, but not too much of a problem. C'mon, let's get you seen to."

The room seemed almost frigid compared to the humidity of the bathroom. Dean glanced worriedly at Sam, but he didn't seem to notice the temperature change. Which was just further creepiness, but at least he wasn't shivering.

Dean sat Sam down on the bed and started digging through his bag, looking for the medical kit. Sam blinked, seemed to wake up a bit, stood. "Where are my clothes?"

Dean glanced up. "In your bag."

Sam looked around, and grabbed the bag. He began pulling out fabric almost manically.

"Whoa, hey," Dean frowned, "give me a second to find the aloe, first."

"I need to get dressed."

Dean's frown deepened. "Sam, dude, you've burnt yourself. Clothes will hurt if you just pull them over the burns."

"No, they won't."

Jesus Christ. "Yes, Sam. They will."

"Not enough to matter," Sam clarified, picking up a bundle of wrinkled clothes. "I need to get dressed."

Sam's earnest expression told Dean that he'd meant it as a reassurance, but it kind of freaked Dean out. Dean shook his head, and controlled his first four reactions. He decided to let Sam do what he needed to do right now. No mater how much he wanted to shake and push. "Okay. Fine. Can I at least clean up the incision?"

Sam shrugged indifferently, pulling his jeans on.

"Okay," Dean sighed. He took a breath, and kept his back turned and his voice consciously unconcerned. "What did you mean when you said it won't shut up, Sam? What won't shut up?"

He waited… but there was only silence. A silence that got deeper, got colder, each passing second. Swallowing, he turned. "Sam?"

Sam was sitting on the bed shivering…more than that; he was shaking. His eyes were closed, and he was grinding the heals of his hands into them. His breathing was ragged.

"Sam?" Dean took a step toward him…

"Don't," Sam warned. "Don't. Please. I don't want to…it's too close. Too loud. If I think about it, it could be too much. I could be too much. So…"

Dean nodded quickly. "Don't. Got it. No thinking about it. Right." He eased down on the bed next to Sam. "So, let's just get your incisions taken care of and hit the road. Sound okay with you?"

Sam settled as Dean took care of the wound. The physicality of it – touch and voice and even pain – seemed to ground him. The shaking slowed into a vague, constant tremble. His eyes became distant again. Expressionless. And this time Dean let him let go, knowing that whatever he was distancing himself from was…apparently too much.

Five minutes, and a handful of antibiotic ointment later, Sam was pulling a tee-shirt stiffly over his head. Dean watched as he layered a button-down over that, and then an old hoody over both.

"Sam, it's eighty-seven degrees out there."

"I'm cold."

Dean blinked. "I'm getting that."

Dean's cell went off, the bland electronic ring that had replaced the rock a few weeks after Sam was gone. Every time he'd heard the music he'd half expected it to be Sam on the other end. Even changing the song hadn't helped. So now, it was just an anonymous ring.

Dean flipped it open absently. "Yeah."

"_Dean?"_

"Cas? It went down? You're okay?"

"_I am fine. Raphael took the bait. He's moving."_

"Good."

"_Need I remind you that _you_ are now the bait?"_

Dean absently moved over and thumped the wall above the TV a few times. It was the wall they shared with Bobby's room. "I am aware of that fact, thanks."

"_So in what way is this good?"_

"He's going the away from the rings. That's gotta be good."

"_You need to run. I repaired the sigils on Sam's ribs while healing him, but Raphael has eyes everywhere. You will not be safe for long."_

"I know."

"_So what is the next step of the plan?"_

"I'll let you know as soon as I've figured that out. You still going to meet up with us?"

There was a hesitation, and then: _"Yes. Give me some time to make sure I'm not being followed."_

"Okay. See you soon."

Dean snapped the cell shut as someone banged on the door. Dean unlocked it, letting a freshly scrubbed Bobby in.

"You rang?"

"Baby-sit for me while I get cleaned up? We have to be out of here in, like, five."

Bobby glanced at Sam, sitting on the bed, carefully working his boots on. He'd both obviously heard the 'baby-sitting' jibe, and just as obviously didn't care. "You heard from the angel."

"Yep. And we gotta book."

"I don't like this painting a bulls-eye on your ass, Dean."

Sam's head came up at the words, his expression inscrutable.

"It's fine," Dean answered more to Sam than Bobby. "We can't be located, at least not easily. And it will keep him away from the rings for long enough for us to figure out what the hell to do next. Just… don't worry about it for now."

Neither of them looked convinced.

Dean didn't take offence, he wasn't convinced himself.

The shower was probably one of the fastest in Dean's life. He would have skipped it entirely, but he couldn't take even another hour wearing his brother's blood.

They were out of the motel and on the road less then fifteen minutes later.


	15. Chapter 10

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. SO not mine.

Author's notes: So… this thing started out as a series of 5 images/scenes in my head I wanted to write…everything else was just a way to link them together. Sometimes that shows. Sorry.

Oh, and Miki rocks! ;)

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

* * *

Company, always on the run.  
Destiny with the rising sun.  
Oh, I was born with 6-gun in my hand,  
behind a gun I'll make my final stand.  
That's why they call me:

Bad company - and I can't deny,  
bad company - till the day I die.  
Till the day I die  
Till the day I die.

Rebel souls, deserters we are called.  
Chose a gun, and threw away the sun.  
Now these towns,  
they all know our name.

6-gun sound is our claim to fame.  
I can hear them say:

Bad company - and I won't deny,  
bad bad company - till the day I die.  
Till the day I die.

_~Bad Company – Bad Company_

_

* * *

_

It was shortly after noon when Sam shocked them all.

"I'm hungry."

He looked mildly surprised by that, like it had taken him awhile to figure it out.

Dean didn't hesitate. Of course Sam was hungry – it had been over twenty-four hours since the graveyard, and his body had been through the ringer. He should have thought of it earlier. "You want anything in particular?"

Sam seemed to consider, then simply said: "Food."

"Drive-thru it is."

The best thing about Micky-Dee's was that you were never very far away from one. Dean rolled through the drive-up ordering enough food to feed…well, someone who was recently back from the dead. And a chocolate shake. Sam had always been a sucker for chocolate shakes.

It was the first thing Sam picked up; and it was half gone before Dean pulled to the back of the lot, parking under a tree. Sam clutched the grease-laden bags almost compulsively. "You planning on sharing?" Dean asked, mostly amused.

Sam nodded vaguely, swallowing another cheeseburger pretty much without chewing. Definitely without tasting. Three bites and it was gone. Dean fought the urge to count his fingers.

Bobby grabbed a burger while Sam dug a chicken sandwich out of the bags. "You gonna eat, kid?" Bobby asked Dean.

Dean sighed, fetching a quarter pounder and snagging some fries. "We're running low on cash," he announced to the car.

"How low?" Bobby asked. He knew that hunters and people on the run needed cash to survive. And they now ranked as both.

"Low enough," Dean said wryly. "We're down to seed money." The money they used to place the first bets, the money they used to _make_ money. Dean hated to spend it. Coming up with more seed cash would be a son-of-a-bitch. But truth was, there were some things in their world that required ready cash…things that included bribes and the ammo and various back-ally supply stores. They couldn't use the bad cards for that stuff. It would get them blackballed at places and with people they needed to have access too.

"I could hit an ATM, front you –"

"No, Bobby, man, thanks. But no. I don't want to do that to you, and besides, it would leave a trail. Call me paranoid, but I don't like that idea. At all."

"Well, you are paranoid, but I don't blame you. So what are you gonna do?"

Dean opened his mouth, ready to admit he didn't know… when Sam spoke.

Mouth full of masticated fries, Sam swallowed hard, slurping at a mostly empty coke. "We find a bar and hustle some ready cash," he said, reaching into yet another sack with his free hand. The 'duh' was implied in the tone. He didn't bother to look up from the sack as he tossed the empty cup aside.

Dean was startled into a grin. "Yeah. Right. What was I thinking?" Four months of domestication and he became a neutered housecat. Damn. "Bobby? I know you never signed on for this…do you want us to drop you off at the bus station or something..?"

"Where's the nearest bar?" Bobby growled. Dean could only be glad that he hadn't slapped him in the back of the head.

* * *

They found a likely place just over the state line. Night had fallen and the place was busy enough that strangers wouldn't stand out to much. And close enough to the highway for a quick exit should things go bad.

"Okay, guys, lets go fleece the locals."

They ambled across the dark parking lot, stretching after hours in the car. Night had fallen, and the floodlights caught the dust of crushed beer bottles and set the asphalt sparking. Sam was watching the dull shimmer so closely that Dean had to grab his arm to keep him walking in a straight line.

They'd had to wait a few hours for it to get late enough to work a joint over. Sam had slept through most of them, curled up as much as he could get in the passenger seat – arms folded and hands tucked into his hoody, drowsing in the hot sunlight coming through his window as the scenery rolled past.

Bobby stretched out in the back, reading. It was one of Sam's books, unearthed from the depths of the trunk when Bobby retrieved Sam's bag. Dean didn't think Sam would mind.

Dean himself spent most of his time listening to the radio and wondering how dull his skills had gotten. He'd never been this long without exercising his talents…at least not since he was a kid.

Well, he was about to find out. The place was pretty typical. It always amazed Dean that every one of these local watering holes thought that it was so unique, so different from every other place…but they were pretty much all the same: same old street signs hung on the walls, same neon liquor signs hanging from the ceiling – free promotions from the same companies. Same sticky floors, same smell of stale beer and, occasionally, piss. Same music. Hell, even the same faces, people just coming off work and looking to relax, mostly. No matter how far apart, no matter what accent, they were all the same.

It had always tickled Dean. He liked it. It gave a sense of continuity to a life of movement. Now it felt like…finding himself, and he started to grin as something caged inside him stepped up and stretched out.

Bobby rolled his eyes at the grin, and, snagging Sam's sleeve, tugged him toward a table in the back. "Get us a couple of beers, before you get too carried away."

"Check," Dean acknowledged. They had a pool table. Excellent. A few hours and they'd be on the road again.

"Try not to rub your hands together like that. It kind of blows your image," Bobby sneered.

Sam _almost_ smiled. So Dean let it go.

Instead, he made his way up to the bar, ordered a pitcher and three glasses, and turned his attention to the three guys playing at the table.

Three hours later, Dean was in the zone – and up three hundred dollars. The early crowd had been perfect. Older guys who were blowing some time before heading home, who had taken the losses with embarrassed amusement…an embarrassment they decided to soothe by spreading it around, and told their buddies he was an easy mark.

He glanced over every once in awhile, but Bobby and Sam seemed good enough, Bobby still reading and playing with his knife, while Sam watched the bar with lazy eyes. Every once in awhile he'd rub at his chest, but he didn't seem uncomfortable, so Dean didn't worry.

Instead he focused on the game. He'd made a few quick bucks from the family guys, but he'd been careful to keep the amounts low. These were good guys who couldn't afford to loose much. Eventually the family men had headed home, and the place was now populated by an uneasy mix of rough-necks and teens with fake IDs from the local town. Out of the two, the kids always made Dean more nervous. The rough-necks would keep to themselves, but young bucks always had something to prove.

They were also the easiest marks. Mixing ego and adolescent pride made for big bets and too much assurance in non-existent skills.

It also made for big explosions.

"You scammed us, man!"

Dean rolled his eyes, quickly sliding the last seven hundred into his pocket, hoping that getting it out of sight would help it slip their drunk-assed minds. "I didn't do anything except win."

"You didn' win," slurred drunk-ass number two: the inferior sequel, "you _cheated_."

"I won fair and square," Dean argued, edging around the table to where he had more elbow room. "It's not my fault you guys suck."

Guy three glared at him, looking far too sober for Dean. He'd been the one playing, and Dean noted that he hadn't put down the pool cue.

"We didn't suck until this last game," number one muttered. "You were…" he searched for a word. "Faking it!"

"Dude, don't confuse me with your last girlfriend."

It took them awhile to figure that one out. Long enough that Dean had backed away from the table, and toward the more populated part of the bar.

But he'd been watching thing one and thing two so closely he hadn't tracked the more sober – and more quiet – number three.

It was a mistake he regretted as soon as three cracked the pool cue into the side of his head.

The world bounced as agony jolted through his head. He was on the ground almost before he felt the blow, trying instinctively to stay on his hands and knees, trying to decide which way was up, and why did his skull feel like it was made of crushed eggshell…?

He weakly shook it, which turned out to be an awesomely bad idea, as his balance crumbled and he just knew he was going to faceplant in the sticky-gross floor –

– then he was getting jerked to his feet. He staggered a bit, catching his equilibrium against the nearest steady object, which was growling in a deceptively friendly tone: "Did you just blindside my brother?"

Dean blinked, and when his vision cleared he was shoulder to shoulder with Sam…except this hulking, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, _dangerous_ guy staring at number three with such…malevolence…it couldn't be _Sam_.

Sam still had one hand twisted in Dean's collar, but his gaze was locked on the guy with the stick…the guy who was backing away.

"No," Sam rumbled. "You don't get to just walk away from that." And Dean suddenly found himself alone as Sam jumped Three.

"Fuck, man!" Two hollered, stumbling away as Sam knocked Three to the floor, easily straddling him. Sam's fists rose and fell. Thing One was more adventurous than Two…or more stupid. Sometimes it was the same thing. He reached for Sam's hood, obviously intending to drag him off his buddy – but Sam's head snapped up and he landed a beautiful right hook. One's head snapped backward, and he staggered back and fell, clutching his obviously broken nose. Blood dripped from his cupped hands, his eyes shone wide and frightened above.

The interruption didn't even slow Sam down. He was methodically pulverizing Three, his expression almost calm.

"Somebody call the damned cops!" Two shouted, and Dean glanced around to see if anyone was.

The bar has gone still as everyone, rough necks and townies alike gaped at the brutal beating taking place. The bartender seemed to be the only one not spooked. She had her cell out.

"Time to go," Bobby muttered, grabbing his arm. Dean nodded, pulling his arm free.

"Sam!" He grabbed the center of Sam's sweater, already blocking the fist he knew would be coming is way. The expected blow thudded against his forearm as Sam swung on the new attack automatically. It was hard enough that Dean felt the slam of it all the way to his shoulder.

"Fuck," he muttered, and twisted his arm away. He could already feel the bruise forming. He ignored it as he went from blocking Sam to catching his face. Making Sam see him. Facing eyes that were alive and cold and _furious_. "Sam…?"

"What?" he snarled. "I'm a little busy here." Blood dripped from his torn knuckles.

"Sam," Dean said again, fighting to keep his tone light and his eyes steady. "He's pulped. It's _enough_, Sam. We have to go. Now."

Sam came up without a fight when Dean pulled. Three wasn't even moaning, his face was rapidly swelling, and Dean diagnosed a fractured cheekbone and dislocated jaw with just a glance. Sam didn't seem to notice his handy work. His eyes flicked over the other two, crouched on the floor. "Nobody fucks with my brother except me."

Dean felt those words go deep enough to hit bone. He shuddered with it.

"Out. Now." He pushed at Sam's back, and Sam moved.

Bobby was already in the car. They passed the cops going the other direction as they hit the highway. Dean hoped they brought an ambulance, too.

Once on the road, Dean hesitated to look at Sam. His gut twisted, wondering if he would see that knowing smirk, that almost affectionate menace. The expression that echoed…someone else. Someone whose words Dean had just heard come from Sam's mouth.

"Is there any food left?" Sam asked instead, rooting through the crumpled bags with bruised and swollen hands. His torn knuckles left bloody smears on the white paper. Dean's own blood ran cold, and Bobby didn't look much better.

"Do you have any idea what you just did in there, son?" the older hunter asked, more gently then Dean would have expected.

"Beat the crap out of some guy who was messing with Dean," Sam answered promptly, sounding more animated than he had since he woke up…almost hyped. He scavenged a burger.

"Don't," Dean said, reaching over and taking the sandwich from him before he could unwrap it. Sam met his eyes – and suddenly shuddered. His breathing sped. He started to shiver a little.

"Dean?"

Dean snatched glances at him as he drove. "Sam? You back with us?"

"I never left," he pointed out, sounding confused…and dull again. Flat. Disinterested. The shivering faded into the same low-grade trembling that he'd been suffering periodically since waking.

"You remember what happened?" Bobby asked.

Sam shrugged, eyeing the sandwich. "Beat the crap out of some guy who was threatening Dean," he repeated, but neutrally this time. "I take it you're upset?" He was still watching the burger.

Dean sucked his teeth. "Upset? You could say that, yeah. You just went Michael Myers on that guy, Sam."

"He was hurting you."

"It was overkill. Literally! What the hell, Sam?"

Sam leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "It was…too much. Too loud. Too…busy. And he shouldn't have hurt you. He shouldn't have. I'm not sorry." He looked at the sandwich again, then looked out the window.

Dean huffed. "Damn it. You can have the burger, Sam. You need to wash up first. You have that guy's blood all over your hands. You don't want to eat that do you?"

The words split the air like lightening, sudden and sharp and unexpectedly dangerous.

Sam didn't respond, but he settled more firmly into his seat.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Dean wasn't sure if he was less worried now that flat-Sam was back…or just so damned worried overall that it had overloaded into a sort of acceptance.

Bobby sighed in the back. "At least tell me we got the money?"

"We got enough for awhile," Dean hedged.

"So where do we go now?"

"We go pick up Cas, then we run."


	16. Chapter 11

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: If they were mine (which they are not) I would encourage fanfic as it both makes people obsessed with the characters (so they keep watching/reading) and is free advertising. Just saying.

Author's notes: Stupid angels. Really. I hate those feathered freaks. *sigh*

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

* * *

Whatsoever I've feared has come to life.  
Whatsoever I've fought off became my life.  
Just when everyday seemed to greet me with a smile,  
Sunspots have faded, and now I'm doing time  
'Cause I fell on black days.  
Whomsoever I've cured, I've sickened now.  
Whomsoever I've cradled, I've put you down.  
I'm a search light soul they say, but I can't see it in the night.  
I'm only faking when I get it right.  
'Cause I fell on black days.  
How would I know that this could be my fate?

_~Soundgarden – Fell On Black Days_

_

* * *

_

Something was following him.

Castiel had rested for a small amount of time, just enough to both gather his strength and to make absolutely sure Raphael and his ilk were truly gone. Then he had moved.

It had gone with him, trailing him, always just out or reach of his senses – like an itch he couldn't reach.

It followed him relentlessly… until he reached his final destination.

The Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. Over thirty-thousand acres of pure salt. Inaccessible for demons; and featureless enough that a human scryer wouldn't be able to pin point an exact location. It was an image he had pulled from Samuel's fractured thoughts as he'd healed him – Sam had kept this place in reserve for a time when he and Dean really needed to hide. Well, Castiel really needed it now. It lacked only protection from angels.

Which could be rectified.

Castiel dug out a flat area, twice the size of the rings. He placed them in the exact center of the hollow and traced an Enochian ward around them using holy oil. The salt burned yellow, melted, and went out. It cooled into a brown glasslike etching. One Castiel, nor any other angel, could reach across. Castiel then carefully pushed more salt over the symbol and the rings, covering them both.

Then he did it again, adding a second ward that expanded the 'invisible fence', as Dean would have phrased it, a further five-hundred feet back. Then a third time, the diameter now nearly a half-mile wide.

It was well done. Castiel himself could no longer reach the rings, which meant that they were beyond the reach of all angels and demons. When this was over, he would bring Dean here so that he could retrieve them. Until then, they were moderately safe. He was pleased.

The irritating itch had stopped as soon as he entered the salt-fields, which only confirmed what it had been. He wasn't worried as he moved on. There were more powerful beings searching for his location then that glad-fly of a demon buzzing around.

He needed a safe place to meet the Winchesters. Someplace that offered some protection against the angels who were waiting for a chance at them. A chance to tell Dean and Sam truths that Castiel had never spoken. A chance to break Dean's faith in him, cause him to run and leave the rings venerable. Castiel needed someplace that might give him time to tell Dean what he really was, and allow the human to decide his own path. He was done with treading on the freewill of others. Dean would know all. And Raphael could no longer threaten him with exposure of the truth.

When the truth has become a weapon to your enemies, it is easy enough to loosen their grips. And in doing so, become stronger.

Eventually he called Dean, to tell him when and where they could meet.

* * *

The cheeseburger was cold, but it didn't matter. It was just food. He tore off another bite and chewed and swallowed. Dean had finally given it to him after he'd washed up at a rest stop somewhere. He didn't know where. He didn't know where they were now either. He waited…but there wasn't any urge to ask. So he didn't.

Besides, Dean and Bobby were talking.

"Why the hell did the angel want to meet you there?" Bobby asked. He sounded confused. "St. Boniface Church? That's on the west side, right? There's nothing on that side of this city. Why doesn't he just meet up with us when we stop?"

He heard the words, and he understood them, but they flowed around him – happy little noises in an impossible reality. He enjoyed them absently, like birdsong on a warm day.

"Look, I don't _know_ why, okay? He said he was being followed before, so he may be trying to shake them. Also, he wants to talk to me." Dean's hands flexed on the steering wheel…Sam saw it, noted it, ate his burger. Just like he saw the pointed look Dean gave Bobby in the rearview mirror, the 'don't upset Sam' look. After that, Sam kept his eyes carefully focused on the blackness churning outside his window as he chewed.

Vaguely he wished it was daylight. He wasn't scared of the dark, there was nothing to be scared of. The dark was just…night, and not near as dark as…. But he liked the sun. The heat of it. Truth was, he didn't need it though. He was just tired of being cold. It made him feel…numb.

The world was so…flat. Stale. Meaningless. Colors were only bright, never deep, never poignant. The sun was only hot, never warming. The stars were only there, never beautiful. They were only distractions. There was no point to any of it.

He hurt. There was a gapping, shrieking wound that was throbbing inside him, constantly. A darkness deeper than night and colder than….

_It_ was real. _It_ was there. And it was the only thing he could feel, fully.

And even _it_ didn't matter.

_(He always hurt.)_

He finished the rest of the burger mechanically, absently rubbing at the aching that went so much deeper than his flesh.

"Look," Dean continued. "It's been one hell of a day. Let's find a motel, bed down, and I'll go get Cas, okay?" He shot a concerned look in Sam's direction, watching him dig at the muscles of his chest. Sam ignored it.

Dean looked uneasy. In the back, Bobby nodded. "That might be for the best."

He really wanted another Coke. He'd never really liked it before, but now the acidic-sweetness of it seemed almost to have flavor.

He felt a touch, and looked down to see Dean pulling his hand away from his chest. "Stitches itching?" Dean asked, not unsympathetically.

"No," he answered honestly, and looked back out the window. Dean could have his hand, if he wanted.

_Nobody else was touching him. __**Ever**__._

The thought was raw and red, fearful and furious…and faded back into the cold, sharp white that filled the back of his mind quickly enough so that he didn't really feel it much.

Dean turned him loose. The dark churned restlessly outside the windows. And neither thing mattered.

They drove for awhile. Then there was a motel. And Dean dropped him and Bobby off, departing with an obviously anxious look. "Ten minutes. I swear. We'll be back in ten." Sam wondered who he was trying to reassure, them or himself.

The door slammed, and he put it aside. For now. The gapping wound in the center of him was churning restlessly – voices and thoughts and images sliding up and fading away like a brief glimpse of snowflakes as they fell from white clouds into white, cold ground…brief and perfect and cold and cutting. And they vanished as fast as they appeared. Inside he was a swirl of cold and white and a storm that wanted to bury him. No, not bury him. It wanted to tear him open, tear his very self apart and crawl through what was left – loose itself on the word, turn all of reality into that same twisting, cutting cold…

He shuddered, forcing his eyes open. He was here. _Here_.

_(He was never there.)_

The whole in him shrieked. He shivered.

Bobby had turned away from the door. He sighed, watching Sam standing stiffly and shaking. He shifted nervously, but you had to hand it to the guy – he wasn't running. "You want to watch some TV?" Bobby asked.

He didn't _want_ anything, but Sam sat on one bed while Bobby flicked on the TV. Bobby watched for awhile, got bored, got up for the bathroom with a magazine and a warning: "I locked the door. Don't leave this room."

Sam watched him. Willing him to go away. He was a disturbance. It wasn't that Sam didn't appreciate having Bobby around, but he…it was too much. He'd been alone for so long (_he was always alone_) that he wasn't sure how to handle being with others.

And it was so…disconcerting. He'd seen Dean and Bobby before. It had kept him strong, kept him fighting, to see them, to know they lived and continued. _He'd_ known, known it would make Sam stronger, that he would struggle harder with something to survive for, that he wouldn't give completely into despair if he remembered his sacrifice had a purpose. So _he'd_ let Sam see them every once in while…and it worked; he'd been stronger than the other vessel. It had helped Sam survive, which had helped _him_ prevail more often then not. _He'd_ let him see…see but never be seen. Never touch, never hold, never communicate, never be with.

And now…he wasn't sure how to do it anymore.

He needed some time. He... the hole in him was demanding his attention, and he couldn't fight it with Bobby in the room. He couldn't give in with someone watching. Couldn't show weakness.

And he really needed…to not have to ignore this – just for a little while.

Bobby shifted uncomfortably, obviously unhappy with Sam's lack of response, then, _finally_, went into the bathroom.

Good.

Sam allowed his eyes to close once Bobby was out of the room. Bitter teeth were tearing into him from the inside, dripping acid like drool. The hollow ache was roaring still, a sucking black hole in the very center of him that was so cold it burned. It was demanding his attention, his focus, stealing his control away in little bits and pieces… enjoying his agony. And part of him wanted to fall into it. Let it take him.

His chest twinged. It was pain, and once it would have brought him to his knees… but now it wasn't enough to do much more than get his attention.

He'd been rubbing the skin over his incision again, unconsciously hurting himself while trying to ease a much deeper wound that would never be soothed. His tee-shirt was damp under all the layers. He pealed them back to find blood.

He had ripped several of the stitches loose. That was…inconvenient.

Getting up, he found the med-kit that contained the antibiotics Dean was making him take. Inside were scissors and tweezers.

Good enough.

He was picking the last two free of his flesh when Bobby opened the bathroom door. He hissed as he saw what Sam was doing.

"Christ, kid." The older man sounded half appalled, half resigned. "They weren't ready to come out yet."

"Close enough," Sam shrugged, laying the scissors down. The incision gaped a little, but it _was_ closing. And not leaving a scar. Weird.

"You've got blood in your bed," Bobby pointed out.

"Not much," Sam answered.

Bobby seemed reluctant to come into the room. Then huffed. There was a resignation to him that discomforted Sam to see, but he had no idea how to help. "Okay," Bobby said, stepping to the TV, obviously deciding that keeping things as normal as possible was the best option. "It's your bed. TV gonna bug you? Pawn Stars is coming on. I love that show." Bobby settled himself in the other bed, and Sam watched him pull his gun out and lay it next to his hand on the dirty-yellow bedspread.

Sam wasn't foolish enough not to know it wasn't completely to protect against things _outside_ the room.

He approved. You could never tell when things would just get to be…too much for someone.

So he laid down and stayed still. Even when the hole in the center of him throbbed so hard it felt like it was trying to twist and turn him inside out, he kept still. He didn't curl up, or tuck in no matter how much he wanted to. He locked his hands in place to keep from rubbing at the burn in his chest. Silent things tended to get overlooked when the fury started flying. You weren't interesting if you weren't screaming. Still things were boring when they didn't react to stimulus; not pain or false kindness. There was sanctuary in stillness. There was power in it.

And Sam was very good at being still.

Eventually Bobby relaxed. It wasn't long until he dozed. It wasn't unexpected; it'd been a long couple of days for him, and the room was tranquil. Sam waited until the dozing turned into the more even breathing of deep sleep, and he broke his stillness.

Sitting up, he ignored the massive pulse of pain that his still healing body gave. He'd stiffened while lying on the bed.

Didn't matter.

He shivered in the chill that radiated from inside him.

Dean had said ten minutes. He'd _said_. And he'd said it at least two hours ago.

He'd also said St. Boniface Church.

Sam wasn't completely sure where that was, but it couldn't be hard to find.

The door barely made a sound as it closed behind him.


	17. Chapter 12

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. SO not mine.

Author's notes: Stupid hypocritical angels. I kind of like the demons, though. They may be petty power-mongers, but they know how to have fun with it. Evil is always at its very scariest when it's being totally honest.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

* * *

We'll be fighting in the streets  
With our children at our feet  
And the morals that they worship will be gone  
And the men who spurred us on sit in judgment of all wrong  
They decide and the shotgun sings the song.  
I'll tip my hat to the new constitution  
Take a bow for the new revolution  
Smile and grin at the change all around me  
Pick up my guitar and play  
Just like yesterday  
And I'll get on my knees and pray  
We don't get fooled again…

Meet the new boss  
Same as the old boss

_~The Who – Won't Get Fooled Again_

_

* * *

_

The rings were beyond his reach.

Raphael growled. He had no Sacrifice, the other archangels would not allow their own lives to be shed for Michael's freedom, and he could not. He had been _created_ for the coming war. He could not die before it came. He felt he need of it like his lightening, shimmering through his celestial body, burning as it went. But without a Sacrifice, he had to have the rings.

Winchester had the rings. He had no way to track him. The frustration of that was…unbearable.

He could not find the Winchester brothers, not on his own. He'd sent out a call, to all his followers and to all the fanatical little monkeys who would listen, and he knew that all he need do now was wait. Eventually they would be seen. And then the rings would be his.

And he could have his war.

But patience had never been a virtue he had much adhered to, and every second he was forced to wait, his anger at this world, this petty little existence, grew deeper.

"Well, well, well…aren't you just a tasty little morsel." She strolled out of the night, all strut and pride and amusement, but underneath there was the stench of fear and despair. "All that yummy anger and pride. Mmmmm," she practically purred, "I could just eat you with a spoon, lover."

He stared at her, feeling the evilness of her seeping from her core like rot from a corpse. "You dare speak to me, you _pismire_? You _dare_?" He felt the lighting come to him, sparking under his feat, flaring in his eyes. "It would take me less than a second to obliterate you. Less than a _thought_. You are nothing. One of the least crawling about in a plague colony of the worthless. Go away."

"If I'm so worthless, why haven't you offed me yet, oh great and powerful Oz? Could it be curiosity?" She smiled, the expression dark and slightly threatening. "You know what that did to the cat, right?"

"I am not some human _soul_," he turned the word into an insult, "given a few magic tricks. I am _not_ curious about you." He reached out, not physically, but with his grace and began to squeeze.

The demon gasped, choked, slowly began to topple. He took his time. It was interesting how the shades of death in the face of the host complemented the blanching of the demonic spirit underneath.

The demon whooped in a blood soaked breath, tossing her head back, and shouted: "We want the same thing!"

"I sincerely doubt that." He twisted his 'grip', and enjoyed the half scream that resulted.

"The. End."

He relaxed his hold, just a bit. "What?"

"The end. Of the world." The words bubbled and popped as they escaped her host's throat. "I know another way to open the cage!"

"I need only one way."

"The rings won't work for you!"

Raphael hesitated. Demons lie. But she was no threat. "Explain."

She fell as he let his power retract, panting and rubbing her chest and throat. "Wow," she eventually croaked. "I haven't had foreplay like that in way too long." She grinned up at him through bloodstained teeth.

Electricity filled the air. "You try my patience, demon."

"Yeah. I'm told that's my best talent." She heaved herself to her feet, staggering a bit as she caught her balance. She smiled. "Or, well, one of them."

He slapped her. Though he didn't move, her head snapped back viciously and she staggered. She looked back at him, rubbing a cheek. "You're good at causing pain…almost as good as us."

He glared. "Explain yourself or you will find out how much pain I can cause."

"Promises, promises." Raphael took half a step toward her, but she held up a hand. "Chill, alright? I'm going to tell you if you'll give me a second."

"The rings," Raphael growled.

"Yeah. Okay. I've been watching those rings for a long time, now. I've been looking for a way to get at them for months. I probably want the cage open even more than you do, believe it or not. So I've been waiting…and watching. And, Mr. Angel, you got played. Winchester and his pet bird pulled a shill game on you."

"Shill game?"

She smirked. "Winchester _did_ give the feathered freak the rings. They were two feet in front of you, and he sent you running in the wrong direction." She shrugged, "Not that I don't appreciated the art of it."

Lightening pulsed through borrowed veins. "Castiel has the rings? He _lied_? I will destroy him." He began to move, shifting his location on this plane –

"Hold up, chief," she said. "I know where the rings are."

Raphael glared, judging the sincerity of the words. "How would you know?"

She chuckled. "I told you, I've been watching those rings for _months_, looking for an in. I watched you and the other whitemeat chat. I knew what he was doing. And when you left, I followed him."

"He would have sensed you," Raphael growled.

She only shrugged, though. "Maybe he did. I don't know. I wasn't going to take on an angel, anyway, so maybe he just didn't care."

It was a reasonable explanation. "So, if you know where the rings are, why haven't you gone after them yet?"

"Your boy put them out of my reach. Hell, he probably made it so your kind can't get to them, either. I was going to nab some human and make him do the dirty work no matter if it killed him…_especially_ if it killed him – but then I got to thinking, and realized it wouldn't do me any good anyway."

"What do you mean?"

She smiled, a trace of mockery in the expression. "Even if you could get the rings, what would you do with them?"

The ozone smell to the air increased with his irritation. "Open the cage."

"How?"

For a moment he didn't take her meaning, then slowly comprehension began. He blinked. She smirked.

"You don't know how to use them anymore then I do, do you? No instruction manual, and no idea how to turn the rings on." She stepped toward him, actually had the gall to bring her filth nearer him. "Winchester is the only person this side of Death that knows _how_ they work. Without that, you're spiting into the wind, big guy."

Rage flared, hot and sharp and not so different from the lightening that was his gift. "I will find Winchester. He will scream and die and keep screaming, until he tells me."

"Ooo, nice. You almost sound like one of us."

"I am _not_ one of _you_." Light flashed as a bolt crack the sky, as clear and as powerful as a whiplash.

She smiled in the harshness of the burst. "Anger. Pride. Hate. And a willingness to destroy to get your own way. If it quacks like a duck…. Damn, you even got the feathers." She looked him up and down, speculatively, then she shrugged. "You could try torturing Winchester for the info, hell, I'd love to watch, but he held up under one of _our_ best for a long damned time. It'll take awhile to break him. And I don't think you want to wait that long. Especially when there's an alternative."

It grated, that such a corrupt and lesser being could know more then him. "Explain."

"You like giving orders, don't you, Ducks. I thought it was better to _serve_ in Heaven." She shrugged. "Not that I really care. Anyway, you're looking for the wrong Winchester."

His limited acceptance of the creature snapped. "Enough of this," he snarled, and closed his talons over her again. "You're talking in circles."

"Sam Winchester! It's him you need!"

He lifted her off the ground, letting the weight of her host's body skewer her on his power. "The abomination?"

"Yes! He's the real key!"

He dropped her for a second time. He enjoyed the noise she made as she hit the ground. "There are only two ways to open lock on the Devil's cage: The rings and Sacrifice. You spout nonsense."

"Use him as the sacrifice." The words were panted, pain filled, broken…

And ridiculous. "It would take the death of a powerful being to open the lock," the archangel sneered. "He's nothing. Less than nothing. A human with a soul so broken that he is barely alive. He has no power."

"Neither did Lilith, once," the demon said, and her voice was like velvet. "Lilith was created human. The only human to see and speak to Lucifer himself, in his true form."

"She was corrupted," Raphael agreed.

"She was changed. Through _his_ blood. She was the original key. Three ways to open the cage, Ducks: the rings, power, or understanding of true evil. A human soul who has been possessed by Lucifer himself – and Lilith was the only one that ever existed… until now."

"It was her power that allowed her sacrifice to open the cage," Raphael argued.

But the demon shook her head. "She was the key from the moment the cage was locked. At any time she could have been sacrificed, and her death would have turned the lock – but nobody wanted to open the cage back then. She was the key _before_ she was powerful. It was genius, to make her the key. She was self-aware enough to want to live, and would fight against being killed – so the stronger she got, the more secure the cage became."

"But it was her _power_ that allowed the opening of the cage," Raphael repeated, growling.

"I'll take it slow for the logic impaired. Lilith's _death_ tuned the lock, the release of power swung the door wide."

"Selaphiel's sacrifice opened the door quite nicely. And he never knew evil."

She only chuckled. "Never knew evil? He was _related_ to it. All of you are. But, that's a debate for another day," she shrugged. "You guys are _powerful_, I admit that. So powerful that your sacrifice will blow the lid off the cage without help, sure. Power of that type? It bypasses the lock entirely. Instead of turning the lock, you blow the door off its hinges. I like it…but I don't see any more of your kind lining up to take the bullet – or the blade or whatever. And, let's face it, Lilith _never_ had the power of an archangel. What she had was the only once-human mind to have known true Evil – with a capital E. The same understanding that Winchester carries now. The knowledge of evil will let Sam's death turn the lock. Add some of that massive angelic power, and you pop the door. See? Power plus knowledge and you can spring the lock without the rings, and without killing an archangel."

He stared at her, wondering if she spoke the truth. Wondering if he dared listen. "Samuel Winchester," Raphael almost hissed the name.

Her grin showed too much tooth. "Sammy Winchester. Who is now the only human to have spoken to Lucifer directly. In _his_ true form. Which makes Sam the new Lilith."

"And the new key," Raphael mused.

"And the new key," the damned-soul confirmed. "Kill him, add a power spike – say a few dozen simultaneous lightening bolts – and the cage opens. And you get what you want…the beginning of the end, no angelic-suicide needed."

It could be the truth. It did not taste completely of a lie. Truthful or not, Samuel Winchester's death would be welcome to all righteous angels, whatever their caste. If that death could open the cage, then at least he would have provided one useful service in his wasted existence. And if not, where Sam was, Dean would not be far. And Dean was the map to the rings.

Raphael closed his eyes, seeking…but the response was the same as it had always been. The rage that filled him as he hit that wall of silence was massive. "I can not locate them. They are blocked from me. _Castiel_ has done this." His lesser brother was truly outgrowing his wings. It was far passed time they were clipped. He would enjoy setting his brother on the righteous path – right after he made him watch as he told his pet monkeys the truth, and right before he ended his traitorous existence.

"But they are not blocked from _me_," the damned soul said. "And I'll take you to them. For free."

"Why do you do this, demon?"

She smiled, and it was like a death's head. "Payback. Now let's go." She started forward, but he grabbed her, and she turned, questioning.

"What do they call you, demon?"

"I have lots of names, Ducks. But only one that matters now. You can call me Meg."

With that, she strolled into the darkness.

And the Angel followed.


	18. Chapter 13

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. I confess. I'm stealing. And I'm not sorry.

Author's notes: Thanks goes to Miki, as always. Poor thing.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

* * *

If you look at your reflection in the bottom of a well,  
What you see is only on the surface.  
When you try to see the meaning, hidden underneath,  
The measure of the depth can be deceiving.  
The bottom has a rocky reputation.  
You can feel it in the distance the deeper down you stare.  
From up above it's hard to see, but you know when you're there.  
On the bottom words are shallow.  
On the surface talk is cheap.  
You can only judge the distance by the company you keep.

_~Joe Walsh – Eyes of the Confessor_

_

* * *

_

"Cas?"

The old church was dark, dank, and smelled of mold and abandonment. But it still managed to hold an air of…contemplation and peace. Beautifully etched rafters arched high over his head, while tall widows – elegant even with the grime covering them – glowed from the reflected lights of the surrounding buildings. Faded paintings of holy figures ghosted across the chipped walls, but no one had disfigured the place. There was no graffiti, no real trash. It had been left as it had always been, a place for worship – though one left empty for a long time now.

"Cas?" Dean called again, nervously searching the shadows. His hand twitched toward his gun.

"I'm here."

Dean jerked, seeing Castiel now, a hunched shadow in a room full of them. He was sitting in a pew near the front of the church, gazing at the altar. "Cas, what the hell is going on? What's with all this Borne Identity bullshit about meeting in abandoned buildings?"

"This church was built in 1892."

Dean shifted uneasily. "Fascinating. Why are we here?"

"There was a time when all Catholic churches contained an antimension. The one here was left behind when the building was abandoned. They most likely forgot its existence."

"Good for them," Dean said carefully, and ran his lower lip though his teeth. "What's an antimension? And why do we care?"

Castiel looked up at him for the first time. "A holy relic, generally a sliver of bone from a Saint. It's sewn into a cloth, and it is the core of the altar." Castiel nodded at the huge, marble table in the center of the dais. "This one was from a woman who fought for her people, and died for her faith. That kind of sacrifice, that kind of devotion, it leaves something behind. The relic, among other abilities, deadens singular conversation on the ethereal plane."

"Which means…?"

"It blocks angelic hearing for everything except prayer, which it amplifies. I want to be absolutely sure that this conversation remains only between us."

Dean lingered, running a hand over the back of a filthy pew. "Is this a conversation we really need to have?"

Castiel looked as close to defeated as Dean had ever seen him – and seeing as the guy had once pounded him into the dirt while snarling about loosing everything that had ever mattered, that was pretty damned defeated. "Raphael has threatened – has promised – to tell you the full extent of my involvement in the events leading to Lucifer's escape."

Dean took a slow breath, confused. "Uh, I know the full extent of your involvement in that crap."

"No. You don't. And I may be risking our connection in telling you, but Raphael plans on throwing the information at you at the worst time, using it to shake your faith and distract you. He will use it to hurt you. I will not allow that, not when I can stop it by telling you myself."

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. "How bad is this going to be?"

"I was sent, in part, to keep you and Sam…distant."

The words were so abrupt, Dean had to replay them a couple of times to get the sense of them. He carefully didn't let his jaw clench. "…distant. Define distant."

Castiel focused again on the altar. "To keep you apart. We needed you not to trust Samuel."

"Explain."

The word was quiet, and came out calmly enough, but there was an undertone, an edge to it that threatened to make someone bleed.

Castiel dropped his eyes to the shadowy floor. There was no fear in him – after all, he and Dean both knew he couldn't really touch an angel – but there was a tenseness…an awareness of what he was saying that went beyond the words, an awareness of what the words would mean to Dean.

"I didn't know. Not at first, at least. I'm not trying to…excuse myself. I am responsible for my own actions, no matter the reasons. But I didn't know, Dean."

"You didn't know _what_?"

"Didn't know what they had planned. For all of us." He hesitated, then looked up again at Dean. "For Sam, especially."

"Planned?"

The angel rubbed his hands over his face. "I can see it now. Only now. At the time, I only thought their orders were…strange. Confusing. Occasionally contradictory. But even questioning why we were ordered to do something was perilously close to blasphemy. So I turned a blind eye."

"Cas," Dean said carefully, "if you don't tell me what the hell your talking about, _now_, I may have to kill you. And don't doubt that I'll find a way to get the job done."

Castiel closed his eyes. "We…I…was ordered to break your relationship with Sam, to sever it. To keep you from ever trusting your brother."

Dean went cold, a chill that filled his chest and seeped into every part of him. It was like drowning on dry land. "_What_? Why? Why would you –?"

"Because we knew you were the only one who could have stopped Sam. For you, he would have done anything. He would have given up his vengeance. He would have turned his back on Ruby. He would have stopped drinking the blood."

Dean made a sound, though it was too bitter to be a laugh. "No. That's not true. I told Sam to stop a million times, and he never did. He _never_ listened to me. Not once. I told him how fucked up he was getting, and he didn't care. He didn't care about what I wanted."

Castiel looked almost pained. "He did stop, Dean."

"When?" Dean demanded, not believing it for a second.

"Right after you faced the Rugaru," Castiel said. "Before you ever knew he was drinking the blood, he stopped. He wanted to be human. For you." There was a wealth of regret in the angel's voice.

But Dean shook it off. "If he did, it wasn't for long. He caved in pretty quick."

Castiel sighed. "I did my job too well. Even now, after everything, you still doubt him. He stopped for as long as he had hope that you still cared for him. That there was love between you. He did not give way as quickly as you think, Dean; and not without some…prodding."

"Sure," Dean scoffed, stung by the accusation. "Though he _was_ back in fighting form by Halloween, when he iced Samhain."

"It had been so long since Sam had taken any demonic blood that destroying Samhain nearly killed him, Dean. You remember how he bled, how the headache kept you at his side for the following hours."

Dean swallowed. "I was afraid that he'd finally popped something in that thick-skull of his."

"He nearly did," Castiel said tiredly. "But he couldn't allow Samhain to go free… or stand to see you hurt. Samuel has not cared about his own life in a very long time, now."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't like he didn't know that, but it was information he'd never known what to do with. He still didn't. "So, you're saying that when Sam took out Samhain, he was clean?" he asked, pulling them back to safer ground.

"Yes." Castiel looked up, his shoulders hunched, his hands hanging between his knees. "And we couldn't allow that to continue."

"What, you couldn't let him _not_ use?"

"The angels weren't trying to stop the Apocalypse, Dean – they were trying to engender it. They _wanted_ it. The only way they could get it, was for Sam to drink enough blood to kill Lilith and free Lucifer." Castiel folded his hands, elbows on knees, leaning his head against them. "I thought I was there only to protect you, Michael's vessel, as your brother decayed and became more and more unstable. I believed what I was telling you to be true, Dean, when I warned you about him, and when I warned you to tell him to stop. But later I began to wonder why I was not sent to tell _him_. Why were the messages going through you? Should he not hear these things for himself? And then other facts began to fail to add up. Why he was not sent with you into the past, why was he not shown what his mother had done? Why he was not told the truths you were given?"

"And…?" Dean asked, feeling numb.

"And… I eventually found that Sam was receiving different messages from other angels."

The numbness spread, making the whole world feel dull and lifeless. "Other angels."

"I know of at least one time when Uriel told Sam that he would only be allowed to live as long as he was useful. I suspect there were more."

"That son of a bitch threatened my brother?" The anger was as instinctive and instantaneous as it ever had been when Sam was in grade school. At the same time there was the heavy, and familiar, burn of self-reproach. Why hadn't he known – why hadn't he noticed?

"Sam was not my charge. I was not informed."

"Why didn't he tell me?" Dean sat down on a dirty pew across the aisle and a few rows behind Castiel. He went down so heavily it groaned.

"I can only speculate…but he knew you were…vulnerable. Still recovering. You were in no shape to help yourself, let alone him."

"And he was no better." Jesus. They had both been screwed beyond the telling, and he'd kept waiting for Sam to somehow make it better, to make it go away, to reach into the quagmire he'd been sinking into and pull him free…but the whole time Sam had been drowning too. "Is that when he started using again?"

But the angel could only shake his head. "I don't know. Not for certain. But I know that –" Castiel took a breath, deep and ragged, "I know that what he was doing was not enough for the angels who were like Raphael. They wanted it to go faster. For Sam to fall _faster_. Uriel was with them. In many ways, he had been sent to watch _me_, to make sure that I did not interfere with their larger goals."

"Starting the Apocalypse," Dean clarified. "_Damning Sam_."

Castiel met his eyes steadily. "Yes."

Dean struggled to stay where he was, though his fists curled at his sides. "So what did Uriel do? Push Sam into it?"

"In a way," Castiel confirmed. "He was testing the other angels – under orders from Raphael, I now suspect. Any who opposed the release of Lucifer were eliminated. When I assumed demons guilty of the slayings, Uriel and his ilk saw an opportunity. It wasn't coincidence that the demon we captured was your tormentor, Dean. They wanted to make you face your fears. An archangel could have gotten the information from Alistair in seconds, but they knew that making you pull up your demon-trained skills would hurt you – which would push Sam toward his powers, to save you. They knew that Sam would know how agonizing that would be for you. How damaging. And they knew that _he_ would know that there was no way you could survive an encounter with Alistair – not mentally and not physically."

Dean swallowed. "So they used me to make Sam into exactly what they wanted?"

"You are not responsible, Dean," Castiel said simply. "You had no choice. I took you. I made you do what I myself could not face. When Uriel said that we had been ordered to use you, I was relieved. I was coward." Shame colored Castiel's tone. "And when Sam found us… he was already changed. He saved us both, you know. Alistair… I could not defeat him. That was Sam's first kill. And after that change… he was unable to stop. Physically. There was just… too much of it. It was a part of him, after Alistair."

Dean cleared his throat, fighting off the taste of salt and bitterness on the back of his tongue. "He did it to save me."

"Yes. In part."

"And I judged him for it."

"We both did."

Dean looked up at the hunched angel. "Did you know? About what they wanted Sam to do? To become?"

Castiel shook his head. "I did not. I should have, but I didn't. Not then. After Alistair was killed, while you were in the hospital, I was still arguing with Sam. He told me that the angels were behind the killings, but I didn't believe him…not right away. I didn't _want_ to believe it."

"It hurts to doubt your brother," Dean agreed.

Castiel flinched slightly at the words, but nodded. "That's when I began to question my orders. If Uriel was working to bring about the end of the world, and he had been made my superior…what did that mean for the rest of the Host?"

"It meant you were all fucked," Dean said.

"Yes, it did. And you along with us."

And boy, had they been. Bent over and fucked raw. And Sam had never had a goddamned chance, with both angels and demons planning his fall. "But you still did what they told you to do," Dean half guessed, half accused.

"I did." Castiel gazed now at the dirty light shining through the old window above the altar. "I was…a good son, a good brother, a good _soldier_. Though I suspected my orders were not right, it didn't stop them from being my _orders_." He glanced at Dean, and Dean could see the glimmer of an emotion in his eyes…something hot and heavy and uncomfortable. "And when they ordered me to open the panic room and let Sam out…I did it without hesitation."

Dean shook his head, no so much in denial as full out rejection. "You let Sam out? We had him caged, contained, and you let him _go_?"

"I did," the angel said, mercilessly. "I opened the door, and sent Sam to Ruby. To the demon who would guide him to Lilith. He knew he had to get there before you. He knew you were not strong enough to kill her, no matter what I had told you. He wanted to kill her, for you – both to save you and to avenge you. He had lost your love. He was happy to give his life so you would not loose yours."

"Jesus Christ, Cas." Dean started, not sure what he was going to say, what he even could say…then he realized what Cas _had_ said. "'Happy to give his life…?' Sam thought he was going to _die_?"

"He had no illusions that he could take down Lilith without paying the consequences. And even if he survived the fight, you had said that he was to be hunted."

Dean felt his stomach churn. "But I called him. I told him that he was still my brother…"

"I changed the message on Sam's phone. I made him think you wanted to kill him. As I was ordered to."

The air in the room felt too thin, too cold. It burned going down and left him half-suffocated. "So when I came pounding on the door at the convent, screaming for him..?"

"He assumed you were there to finish the job." Castiel confirmed. "If it makes you feel any better he had most likely no plans to fight you. He only wanted to kill Lilith before he died. He would have let you kill him."

The silence that followed was so deep that Dean could hear the old church knock and groan under its own weight. He could hear the rats the scurried through the place. He could see Castiel waiting for him to speak, calmly waiting for the explosion. But Dean's mind was…blank. There was nothing. He felt as dry and hollow as a piece of straw…and as light – like he'd blow away in the slightest stirring of air. He waited to feel…something. Anger. Betrayal. Rage. But there was just nothing.

And one look at the angel told Dean that Castiel wasn't looking for forgiveness, he didn't need Dean's approval. He was simply taking a weapon from Raphael's hands. He probably never would have told Dean at all if he wasn't sure Raphael _would_. It wasn't that he didn't regret his actions, but Dean was not the person he was seeking forgiveness from.

Which begged a question.

"Are you going to tell Sam any of this?"

"I already know."


	19. Chapter 14

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Consider this disclaimed. And decried. And denounced, too. Possibly even deplored. You never know.

Author's notes: Nope. I got nothing.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

* * *

You took me in and you drove me out  
Yeah, you had me hypnotized.  
Lost and found and turned around  
By the fire in your eyes…  
I could be right, I could be wrong  
It hurts so bad, it's been so long…  
Selfish love yeah we're both alone  
The rise before the fall, yeah

_~Ozzy Ozbourne – Mama, I'm Coming Home_

_

* * *

_

"_Are you going to tell Sam any of this?"_

"_I already know."_

_

* * *

_

Dean leapt up. In the decaying doorway was Sam, backlit by the weak streetlights. He was shadow and silhouette, and it spooked Dean to see him so…dark and featureless. Like some necessary part of Sam was gone, like he was a ghost waiting to be banished.

Then he stepped forward, out of the glare, and Dean could see him again, and felt weak at the solid reality – no matter how messed up it was.

"Sam, man, what are you doing here? How did you get here?" And then said in a harsher tone: "What the hell do you mean you _know_?"

He turned to glare at Castiel, but the angel just shrugged. "I did not tell him."

"It wasn't hard to figure out," Sam said, and his voice had that slow drag that Dean was beginning to recognize came with his emotionless periods. "I didn't escape on my own, and Ruby couldn't get near the room. Who else could it have been? And once you figure out that, the rest isn't too hard to guess."

Castiel acknowledged the truth of that with a nod. "How long did you know?"

"Awhile." Sam said. "It didn't matter. It didn't change anything. I did what I did. It was my place to fix it." He had moved up to where Dean was standing, and Dean could make out a wet looking streak on his sweater, just over his incision.

"Damn it, Sam," Dean muttered, sighing. "What did you do this time?"

"Nothing," Sam responded, looking confused.

"Uh-huh. So why are you bleeding?" Dean took his shoulder, turning him toward what little light there was.

Sam looked down, seeming surprised. Then shrugged, unconcerned. "It does that." He pulled loose and Dean let him go.

"Right," Dean ran a hand over the back of his neck. "Where's Bobby?"

"At the motel. He's sleeping."

"So you waited until Bobby fell asleep and took off and what? – stole a car and came looking for me?"

"Didn't have to look. Knew where you were. You said it in the car. You also said ten minutes."

"I also said stay – figures which one you heard."

Sam just looked at him.

"Sam," Castiel called softly, drawing his attention, "it is good to see you again."

Sam blinked at the angel. "You brought me back."

"I did." Castiel shifted a bit in his seat. "Is that…alright?"

Dean watched as Sam considered that question with too much thought for it to be theoretical. It made him…nervous. "Of course it is," Dean snapped, before Sam could answer. "Don't be stupid."

Castiel and Sam shared a look that made Dean hackles come up, but Sam only shrugged, turning to look at the altar. "It's quiet here," he said, and Dean's stomach filled with ice when he realized that he didn't know if Sam was talking about the church, or this side of the cage.

"It is," Castiel agreed.

Dean shifted uneasily. Castiel had been in the cage. He'd had a taste of what Sam had suffered…something that Dean would never know, could never share.

And that was beside the point at the moment. "Guys, let's deal with the problems we have now," he said, stepping between them, breaking the flow before Castiel accidentally set Sam off again. "Cas? You told me all this because Raphael is coming? Does he know where we are?"

The angel shrugged. "I have no idea. But if he doesn't know now, he will soon."

"But the wards will hold him off for awhile?"

"Do not rely on them, Dean," Castiel warned. "They block only his scrying. Every person who sees you can report on your location. Some of his more devout followers will be actively looking. You can't hide from him for long. You have a couple of days at best."

"Actually you have even less time than that."

The voice was feminine and playful, and Dean automatically took Sam's arm as she stepped out from the shadowed alcove behind the altar.

"Meg." Dean actually felt the adrenalin hit his system, a bust of warmth and wakefulness. He tugged at Sam, trying to put him behind him, but Sam stayed where he was, watching the demon with eyes that were far too calm.

"Nice to be recognized," Meg chirped, her host's eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Aw, jeeze, I couldn't _not_ recognize you, Meg," Dean said lightly. "You're the only girl I know who reeks both like a rotten corpse _and_ a two dollar hooker. Still turning tricks on the side, babe?"

She chuckled, the noise completely devoid of humor. "I missed you guys. It's been too long. Especially for you, Sam. Boy, have I missed you." She looked him up and down, provocatively, waiting for a flinch… but in that she was disappointed. Sam didn't so much as twitch – he watched her back, coldly, calmly, with an undercurrent of, well, violence, that was down right creepy.

Meg seemed to feel it too. Eventually she turned her head, breaking eye contact and Dean almost smirked as she took a step, putting the solid marble altar between her and Sam. "Well, this little share and care session was just _fascinating_. So much angst. I hardly know what to do with the tears. Or why I should care. So, how the heck are you boys?" She asked with false good-humor as she drew a hand across the old marble, drawing lines in the dust. Her hands dipped lower, behind the stone, as she leaned forward, pretending to be fascinated with their answer.

"Us? We're fine. Slight pest problem at the moment, but nothing that we can't swat down." Dean's free hand shifted to pull his gun.

"You always did know how to charm a girl, Deano. But we both know that won't work on me."

"I don't need a gun," Castiel said, stepping into Dean's line of fire. "How did you find us, demon?" he demanded.

Her mouth twisted in a smile as she blinked lazily at the angel, still leaning against the altar. "It wasn't hard, whitemeat. You blocked angels. I'm a horse of a whole 'nother color. Seek and ye shall find," she smirked.

Castiel's shoulders straitened; a glow began not so much in his eyes as behind them, his angelic nature surging to the front. "My mistake," he said, "and yours. Only, I will survive to correct mine."

Meg only laughed. "Homie, please. Do you think I'd be stupid enough to walk into this place without backup?"

"I see no backup," Castiel scoffed, starting up the steps toward her.

"Yeah, well, as one of your kind recently reminded me, I'm no big time badass, just a dead human with a few magic tricks. But those tricks?" She pulled what looked like a yellowed handkerchief from somewhere behind the altar, dropped it, and, as Castiel flinched, she ground it under her heel. "They're good ones. Abracadabra."

There was no sensation when the antimension dissolved into powder, no flash or bang. But somehow the soft, contemplative air that had filled the old church melted away like ice in a fire…and all Hell swept in – on angelic wings.


	20. Chapter 15

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. I do own a 'Vampire Attraction Candle' a friend bought for me from a hoodoo shop in New Orleans, once. So I may own _something_ supernatural. But I doubt it works, really, so probably not.

Author's notes: Fight! Fight! Fight! Or something.

And I'll say it again: Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It was appreciated. You have no idea how much.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

* * *

When there's lightning  
You know it always brings me down  
'Cause it's free and I see  
that its me who's lost and never found…

No sign of the morning coming  
You've been left on your own  
Like a rainbow in the dark,  
A rainbow in the dark

Do your demons-do they ever let you go?  
When you try  
Do they hide deep inside  
Is it someone that you know?

_~Dio – Rainbow in the Dark_

_

* * *

_

They were _everywhere_. The angels suddenly filled the church – two in both transepts and two more in the nave, blocking the main doors. Dean cursed as he counted, automatically taking a step toward Castiel, and dragging an unimpressed Sam with him. "Cas, what the hell just happened?"

"She broke the antimension," the angel growled, his blade leaping to his hand.

"So?"

"So then the angels could hear me, Dean," Meg said, sounding like she was speaking to a slow child. "And I said the magic word."

Castiel glared. "You led them to us."

"Wow, he's the bright one, isn't he? No wonder you guys had so much trouble with him as your guide."

"Enough, _pornai_." Dean stiffened as Raphael stepped from the shadows behind Meg. "I needed you to locate them, but do not for one moment think that you will be allowed to insult an angel. Even for one such as him, you are less than the dust under his heel."

"Whatever you say, Ducks," she muttered. "I can just watch. It turns me on." She blew a little kiss at Dean.

Raphael ignored her, standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at them.

Castiel's shoulders hunched and his jaw worked as he watched the elder angel approach.

"We are so screwed," Dean muttered.

"We are," agreed Castiel. "He must have half his forces here."

"Any way for you to get a message out?"

"No."

"Shit."

"There is no reason for you two to panic," Raphael said, and the smile on his face was anything but pleasant. "I have no plans to damage you yet. At least, not physically."

"Then what the hell do you want?" Dean's hand worked restlessly around the grip of his useless pistol.

Raphael simply looked past Dean –

– at Sam.

"No." It was as much snarl as word, and Dean stepped between the archangel and his bleeding brother. "No fucking way. You aren't touching him. _No_."

Raphael's eyes flicked to Dean, glowing with irritation. "You don't tell me no, primate."

Instantly, the world flipped – and Dean was flying backwards, slamming into the leading edge of the transept. All the air whooshed from his lungs as his back hit the corner so hard that he felt something let go with a bright, electric pop – an agony that faded far to quickly into a dull warm heaviness that was so much worse then pain. He tried to gasp as black bosomed in his vision, struggling to pull oxygen into lungs that felt flat and horribly _pressed_, somehow. Vaguely he was aware that he was kicking, but his feet found no purchase. There was no ground under him.

Somewhere near there was the scraping clang of metal on metal. The muffled grunts and shouts of a fight. But it was far and fading away with each second that he hadn't taken a breath – right, he had to breathe.

He gasped, a thin burning whoop of air that only half filled his starving lungs…but it was enough to clear his vision. Blurrily, he could see a form hovering in front of his eyes. A form whose own eyes glimmered with a golden light. A form that was holding him about six feet off the ground by his throat.

He still had his gun. His training had never failed, even when he was half dead. Thank god for Dad.

He lifted the pistol with an arm that didn't want to move. He buried it in the belly of the creature holding him and pulled the trigger over and over again.

The angel winced, looked down at the damage, and growled. It shook him like a rag doll, bouncing his skull off the wall. "Settle down," it ordered. "This won't take long."

He didn't have much choice. He dangled in its grip, barely sucking air through his compressed throat, and he was out of ammo.

Fuck.

Sam's struggle was already over. Dean could see him in the center of the crossway. An angel was holding him on his knees, arms pulled behind his back – too high and too tight not to be straining his shoulders; but Sam only knelt quietly, staring up at Raphael with murder in his eyes. Dean felt a little pang of pride when he saw that Sam's angel had a busted nose. At least he'd gotten in one good hit.

Across the nave, Castiel was still fighting. One angel had gone down under his blade, though it was still moving. But there were three more. Working together, they disarmed him fairly quickly. He sung a punch at one, and another grabbed his hand. Holding his hands behind his back, they forced him to his knees. Even from across the wide nave, Dean could see the blood dripping from the re-opened wounds on his back, and from his nose and ears. And Dean knew the other angels had used more then just their blades.

Castiel's fight lasted longer than his and Sam's, but the outcome was just as inevitable. There were just too many of them for Cas to take alone. Two of the angels held Castiel pinned, while the third stepped in front of him. He raised his blade, obviously going for the kill.

"Stop," Raphael ordered.

The blade hesitated. "He betrayed our kind. He is a blasphemer. Death is the judgment for such crimes," the executioner said.

"Oh, he will die, Zadkiel. But when I will it. First he will witness the return of our brother and the end of this petty little world he has grown to fond of. He will be unable to stop the deaths of his little pets. And, when he has felt all of that – all of the destruction and despair that his little rebellion has brought down on those he cares for – _then_ I may be merciful and send him to meet our Father."

Zedkiel stepped back, obviously not happy, and just as obviously unwilling to risk Raphael's wrath.

Raphael didn't even wait to see that his orders were followed. He gestured at the angel holding Sam, and Dean fought back the urge to smirk as he noted the angel's face was bruising spectacularly. Sam had a wicked right cross. That urge passed quickly, though, as the creature dragged Sam to his feet, and shoved him up the stair toward the altar where Raphael and Meg lingered.

Dean could feel his pulse speed, hammering in his head, in his throat. His skin crawled as he watched his brother forced up the stairs, forced to his knees before the angel and the demon, and he wanted to be sick.

Sam was almost too calm, numb. Cold. He knelt where the angel shoved him, but he looked up meeting Raphael's eyes without hesitation.

"Brazen," Raphael almost spit, glaring at him.

Sam only smiled, his first real smile since he'd gotten back…and there was a malevolence in the expression that shuddered Dean, even across the room and aimed at someone else. "As brazen as an angel who tries to free the devil?" he asked.

Raphael hit him, a wide, open handed swing that rocked Sam back against the legs of the angel holding him down. "Don't push me, beast. I have no tolerance for you."

Sam turned his head to the side, spit red, and then looked back at the archangel – and there was no trace of the blow in his body-language or expression. "Then why am I still breathing?"

For a second both the angel holding Sam down and Meg looked…nonplused by Sam's lack of fear and pain. But Raphael only smiled. "Thankfully, none of us will have to suffer that much longer."

"Let him go!" Dean shouted, even though it came out in a strangled croak, and his personal gorilla slammed him into the wall again.

Sam didn't even seem to hear him, all of his attention was locked on the archangel, lording above him. His face was swelling from the blow, his arms were twisted so far behind his back that his shoulders had to be screaming, and the wet, bloody patch on his chest was growing ever wider. But none of it registered. He stared at Raphael not with fear, but almost with anticipation.

"Why?" Castiel asked, hoarse and angry. "What good can this possibly do you, Raphael?"

"The demon says that the abomination can open the lock on the cage. And then I have the power to push the door wide. I will bring our brother out of darkness and finish our Father's great work right here, right now, and with one simple stroke."

Raphael grabbed the back of Sam's head, pulling him backward, arching him, so that his chest was open and exposed. Dean's head swam as he kicked out at the angel holding him only to end up, curled on the floor, every nerve in his body shrieking – and he could only look up through tear-filled eyes as Raphael raised the blade.

The angel looked at his Sacrifice. "I would ask you if you were ready to meet your maker, but you already have."

"Do it," Sam hissed, staring unflinchingly at his killer. "Do it!" He was trembling in Raphael's grip, though Dean couldn't tell if it was from fear or anger or pain…or something darker than all three…if maybe Sam wanted this. Maybe he wanted a way out.

It broke Dean's heart. "Sam, no."

If Sam heard him, he didn't react. For the first time he seemed…alive, his eyes shining, body tense and ready to fight. He was _there_, completely. But only now, when he was facing death.

"You are willing?" Raphael asked. "I knew you were an abomination, but I had no idea you were so happy to rejoin him."

"I'm not happy. But I am willing. To rejoin him." Sam laughed, a brief bark of a sound so hard and sharp that it was like broken glass being shaken in a bag, and Dean winced. "Do it. And as soon as my blood opens the cage, he'll come…he'll come for _me_. And I'll let him in…I will. I'll _like_ it. Hell, I'm half him as it is – I'll be _whole_."

The archangel hesitated. "You over estimate your value, human."

Sam grinned, and it was a mirror of the same gentle cruelty that had sat so well on Lucifer. It was the expression of a conqueror, dominate and possessive. It should have looked out of place on someone held down, on his knees in front of his enemy – but somehow it wasn't. That expression said that Sam would not be stopped, and that Raphael had already lost the war. Still smiling, Sam spoke: "I'm still his vessel. He still needs me. You kill me to let him out, and he'll bring me back to be his vessel, and I'll say yes. With one condition." Raphael's grip on the blade shifted as Sam's grin grew wider.

"He'll have to raze Heaven," Sam's smile became lazy and dreamlike. "He'll kill all of you for me. To have me. Kill you all, and burn Heaven to its foundations."

"He can't," Raphael hissed in a tone somewhere between rage and disgust.

Sam laughed again. "Oh, yes. He can. The only one strong enough to stop him was Michael, and Michael hasn't faired so well down there. He didn't have the skills. Didn't know the territory. His vessel is gone, and he is weakened. And he's still down there, with no vessel, no armor. With _him_.

"You can't know that," the archangel hissed, wincing.

"Oh, I can. I can feel him. Waiting. Planning. He whispers in the back of my brain, sometimes. He'll give me anything I want if I let him back in," and the dream quality to Sam's eyes and voice vanished as he suddenly locked gazes with the archangel. "And I'm telling you, as soon as he gets out, he can have me. He just has to do this one little thing first. He just has to lay Heaven to _waste_."

Raphael shook his head. "Michael will be freed, too," he said, "And he is stronger than him."

And Sam nodded easily. "He was. But the cage changes things. Destroys things. It rots away pieces of you, leaves behind a hollow that can't be soothed. Michael is tattered. But Lucifer? Lucifer survived there for two millennia. He knows all the tricks. Trust me." The last words came out all most as a purr… but one with teeth. "He will rip through you like fire through tissue paper. He'll turn you all to ash."

For the first time real terror entered Raphael's eyes. "But if you make that deal, the earth will burn as well."

"Yep," Sam agreed, his voice regretful, but no more than that. "But I'm done with being the bartering chip for other people. This time, _I_ make the deal. This time, it's _my_ choice. And I'm going to trade the whole damned world – both yours and mine."

"You won't," Raphael hissed, eyes wide and appalled. "You _can't_."

"Hide and watch me," Sam smiled, pulling free of Raphael's loose fingers. "Dean will live. I'll make sure of that. He may be the only human that does, but if the humans have to go, at least we take you with us, you cold-hearted, soulless, son-of-a-bitch."

Raphael shook his head. "No. No! Not even the Morning Star is that strong."

"Maybe not once," Sam said, no trace of fear or doubt in his eyes or expression. "But he's had a millennium of rage building up. I _know_ how much. I've felt it. I _still_ feel it. And your side..? Michael's broken, Gabriel's gone. Who exactly do you have to stop him? You, Raphael? Can you even slow him down?" The smile was slick and cold, now. "I look forward to seeing you try."

Raphael took a step back, lowering his blade. His eyes flickered around the room, at the other angels gathered there, looking back at him nervously. Then the archangel's gaze hit on Dean. And he smiled.

"You've forgotten," the angel gloated at Sam, pointing the blade at Dean like a teacher pointing out an answer on the board. "Michael will have a vessel when he is free. His _true_ vessel. He'll be strong once again."

For the first time Sam's eyes left Raphael. He looked at Dean. Their gazes met, and Dean recognized his brother; not a broken mind, not a tormented soul, not the half-crazy ghost of a caged Lucifer – but _Sam_, still there and still trying, under all of that. He could _feel_ him.

And the communication they had always had was back in a rush. Dean looked at Sam…and _understood_. Knew what he was thinking, knew the plan... And he knew that it came down to him.

Sam's weapon was to give in, Dean's was to…not. Everything they had both gone through had sharpened them into the opposite sides of a single blade, a blade that could cut through _anything_, could stop anyone – from Lucifer to a deranged archangel. They were balance to one another and the balance between them could hold back even the fury of Heaven and Hell.

They were strong enough, together, to tell the whole of creation to go get fucked.

Dean winked at Sam, and spoke: "I'll say no," he shouted, ignoring the way his captor slammed him into the wall again. "I'll say no."

Sam sagged in relief. He smiled, and it was more Sam than Lucifer for the moment, and that…was all Dean needed. He knew the angels were toast.

"We can _make_ you capitulate," Raphael almost hummed, stepping toward him, walking away from Sam. He stroked the blade with strong fingers. Electricity arced between flesh and metal. His meaning was as clear as the hunger for violence Dean could see glowing behind his borrowed eyes. "We can make you _want_ to."

Dean gurgled a laugh through the fingers wrapped around his throat. "I was in Hell for decades, Raph, 'ol buddy. I was with _Alistair_. You can do what you want – I know I'll die, but I'll die screaming 'no' and keep screaming it. No matter how many times you kill me." He laughed again, and chanted, singsong: "You can't make me! Go fuck yourself!"

The angel holding him shoved him into the wall so hard the plaster cracked. He gasped, and used the burning breath to call out, "Do it, Sam! Give 'em Hell."

Sam's smile deepened, changed. "You heard him," Sam said to Raphael. "Do it. I can feel him, at the door. He's knocking. Waiting. He wants this too. He'll be the first out of the gate – and then _all_ the worlds end. I know it. I fucking _promise_ it. So _do it_."

Raphael stood over Sam, as Sam glared up. Neither one flinched.

Then Raphael snarled, an actual snarl that pulled his lips from his teeth. The blade shook in his hand, ready to plunge into Sam's chest, but not falling…not yet daring…

"What we have here, is a Mexican stand off."

The voice was amused and familiar…and impossible.

Dean watched the figure stroll out of the shadows of the nave, and felt the bottom drop out of reality. "_Gabriel_?"


	21. Chapter 16

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Author's notes: These were all original ideas when I first had them way back when. I swear. But being a half-fast (or half-assed ;) writer means that sometimes things look stale and lame by the time you get to the end. *sigh*

And I'll say it yet again, because it can't be said too much: Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It was appreciated. You have no idea how much.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

* * *

You ask about my conscience,  
and I offer you my soul.  
You ask if I'll grow to be a wise man,  
well, I ask if I'll grow old.  
You ask me if I known love,  
and what it's like to sing songs in the rain.  
Well, I've seen love come,  
and I've seen it shot down.  
I've seen it die in vain.  
Shot down in a blaze of glory.  
Take me now but know the truth.  
'Cause I'm going down in a blaze of glory.  
Lord I never drew first, but I drew first blood.  
I'm the devil's son.

_~Bon Jovi – Blaze of Glory_

_

* * *

_

_Dean watched the figure stroll out of the shadows of the nave, and felt the bottom drop out of reality. "Gabriel?"_

_

* * *

_

"In the absolutely, devastatingly gorgeous flesh." He looked down. "Or, well, celestially willed physical form."

"You can't be alive," Raphael growled. "You died. Lucifer himself ended your existence. You can't be here."

"Oh, yes, I can," Gabriel chirped. He winked at Sam. "Big brother may have taught me all my tricks when I was younger, but we little brothers have a tendency to take what they teach us and do a whole lot more with it – isn't that right, Sammy?"

Sam ignored him, watching Raphael with predatory eyes.

"Right. Sammy's a little over-focused right now. That's cool." Gabriel slouched against a pillar, hands in his pockets. "But I think stressing Sam out anymore is probably a really bad idea – and things would be a _little_ less tense if you guys all backed, the hell, _down_."

The last word split the air like microphone feedback. All the angels staggered back, clutching their heads. Dean dropped as his personal bodyguard lost his grip, and curled up, ears covered. It was a single syllable of Angelic speech…and it was enough to make Dean's eardrums feel like they were about to pop.

As soon as he could move, Dean dropped his hands from his ears and glanced up, shocked to see Sam getting to his feet as the angel who had held him for Raphael writhed on the floor. Sam was moving as if he was unaffected by the sound that had torn through everyone else – like he was used to it – despite the blood Dean could see dripping down to his collar. His ears were bleeding. It wasn't stopping him, though.

It wasn't stopping Raphael, either. As bad as it had been for the humans, the angels' reactions were even worse. The lower caste, like Dean's special friend, hit the floor hard, as whatever power was in the word laid them out. But Raphael only rocked back, as if he'd been punched. Hard. But not hard enough.

"I'm not so easy to put down, Gabriel," he said, straightening, a smile flickering around the edges of his mouth. "You'll have to do better than that." He raised the blade again, only a couple of steps away from an unflinching Sam.

"I dare you," Sam said, his voice like cool honey. "This is your last shot. The last time I _give_ you a free shot. Because from now on it's my choice. _Mine_." He started stalking toward the angel. "And I'm telling you to _fuck off_!"

Sam's fury was…inhuman – cool and sweet and massive. Raphael actually gave way a step before he caught himself. "You can not –"

"Yes, he can, Raphael." Gabriel sighed, climbing up the steps and stopping next to a seething Sam. "This is _so_ over. I know you were never the cleverest of us, but even _you_ have to get this. Sam, here, holds the keys to our destruction. His _is_ the key. We lost the ability to control this outcome a long time ago – if we ever had it. And one thing I learned, living down here?" He looked at Sam. "You have to cut your losses."

"You would know that," Raphael spit. "You left us as soon as you could."

"Oh, good lord. Are we back on that again?" Gabriel huffed. "I wanted to _learn_, Raphael. Between Michael's holier-than-thou attitude, and you running around like his little henchman, and the others all following orders like little drones…I just wanted to see why Dad said we needed to do this. Why we needed to give way to these things. I never meant to hurt you by leaving." He gave Sam a sad smile. "And I did learn, Raphael. I learned so much."

"What could any _true_ angel learn from a pack of conceded, stinking animals?"

"You'd be surprised," Gabriel smirked. "Treachery. Treason. Torment. But also words that don't start with a 't'. Loyalty. Kindness. Sympathy. Creativity, fun, irony. Mercy." He sighed. "And how to know when to fight…and when to walk away."

He shook his head at the other archangel. "It's a stalemate, kiddo. You try to start their destruction again, and they start ours. We've hit the top of nuclear proliferation." His shoulders squared, his expression changed – there was something _holy_ behind his eyes. And his next words were a command. "Let it go, Raphael. It's over. Stop, now, before you are judged."

Raphael snarled. "You may be my elder, but you do not give me orders! And you can't stop me! You don't have the _strength_!"

He lurched at Sam, who squared his shoulders and curled his fists.

"Are you serious? Raphael, just because I never picked on you like Michael and Lucifer, doesn't mean I can't take you over my knee if I need to." Gabriel flicked a wrist – and Raphael screamed – a sound made as much of rage as of fear as something hit him. his clothes and hair whipped, as if he was caught in a wind-tunnel, though the air in the church remained still. Raphael pushed on toward Sam, and slowly he advanced. But each step was worse - first his clothes began to smoke, then smolder...then his skin began to blister. Each inch he gained, cost him pain, but he wouldn't stop. Every step he pushed forward the effect got worse, until he was stripping flesh from his face and hands. And still he pushed on, ignoring the way each step caused him to slide backwards as the wind only he could feel tore meat from him. Under each wound was a glow, flickering and burning like lightening.

Raphael turned blazing eyes on his brother. "You can't stop me. You won't be able to put out this much power for long. I will free Michael!"

"You need a nap," Gabriel said, and snapped his fingers. And Raphael was…gone.

The sudden silence was deafening.

Dean used the lull to stagger to his feet. He stepped over the angel collapsed on the floor to head toward Sam. "Where did he go?" he asked Gabriel.

"I put him in time-out, until he learns how to play nicely with others. I love being the big brother." He smirked for a second, then Gabriel turned angry eyes on the lesser angels, who were still trying to recover.

Castiel was the first on his feet. With a dark look at the angels who held him, he staggered over to Sam and Dean, separating himself from those who followed Raphael.

Gabriel looked him over, then tsked. "Man, you been rode hard and put up wet, kid." He touched him…and Castiel sucked in a breath, straightening a bit.

"Thank you, Gabriel."

The archangel looked sympathetic. "It's not much, but we'll get you seen to once we get upstairs, okay? I have to go home anyway, for awhile, and get this bickering stopped. A-sap. You guys can't go on like this. Any of _you_ have a problem with that?" He glared at the other angels, now standing unsteadily around the room… and they bowed their heads in submission.

"Right. Didn't think so." Gabriel turned to Sam and Dean, and Dean stiffened. "Now as for you two…"

Sam only glared, fists working. "I'm not sorry. I am the key, Gabriel...and if anybody fucks with Dean, or me, again, I will do it."

Gabriel sighed. "I know." He sounded understanding…and slightly sad. And there was a note in his voice that Dean recognized. The tone of someone who was dealing with a person deeply damaged, and unstable. "I don't blame you. You did a good job, Sam. They can't touch you or your brother now. But this is a fine balance. We're trusting you to maintain it. Can you?"

Sam took a breath, his hands slowly unknotting. "If this keeps Dean safe, then I can do it as long as I have to."

Dean frowned, "Do what, exactly?" He put a hand on Sam's shoulder.

Gabriel tried to smile...it didn't work. "Keep big brother under lock and key in there." The angel flipped a hand at Sam's head.

"Lucifer's in Sam's head?" Dean swallowed, trying to keep his heart where it belonged. It wasn't as if the news was totally unexpected... but it was still...devastating.

But Gabriel shook his head. "Not really. Brother-dearest is in his pen. But there's a link." Gabriel frowned at Sam. "How bad is it? Can he speak to you?"

Sam took a breath. "No. Not really. I...feel him, sometimes. It's _strong_, sometimes. but he's not _here_. I try not to think about it. It's better if I don't think about it."

Gabriel nodded. "I bet." He looked at Dean. "He's gotta keep him locked down and in control. Not an easy job. None of _us_ ever managed it for long, that's for damned sure." Gabriel's smile failed. "I'm sorry, Sam." He sounded honestly regretful. "I know how hard this must be."

Sam shifted his weight back, leaning into Deans touch. "Can you fix me?" he asked the archangel.

But Gabriel only shook his head. "The wounds are in your soul, Sam. Angel's don't have those. We don't really know how they work. I wouldn't know where to start."

Dean could feel the shivering starting to course though Sam again, and he swallowed, tightening his grip on Sam's shoulder. "That's okay. That's my job."

Gabriel nodded, looking Dean square in the eye. "This won't be easy. He's only half the way home. You think you're up to helping him?"

Dean met those eyes steadily. "You take care of your family; I'll take care of mine."

Gabriel nodded seriously. He looked at Sam. "I'll do my best to keep them away from you. That I promise. Hell, none of them would dare to mess with you now, anyway. You've saved your family by being exactly what you never wanted to be – you gotta love the irony. Or, well, I do," the former trickster winked. "You did what we couldn't; pushing Lucifer back, standing up to Raphael… creating balance. Your family saved our Father's creation though their pain and their sacrifice." He smiled again, and this time there was something soft and bright and beyond human in it. "No angel could have done this, Sam. We just don't have the heart for it. But you do. And that is why your kind is so…astounding. And why we now give you honor. Thank you."

And then he folded his hands and bowing his head, and Dean had the impression of wings folding somehow… and he went to one knee in front of them.

Dean's eyebrows shot up. Castiel smiled at them – with no trace of bitterness or insincerity – folded his hand, bowed his head, and sank next to Gabriel.

Then, one by one, the others followed.

For a second Dean couldn't quite let it in… then he couldn't help the smirk that crawled across his face. He leaned into Sam. "Think it's 'cos we're so awesome?"

Sam shuddered under his hand, one hand reaching up to push against his temple. "I have to get out of here."

Dean's shocked amusement evaporated. He was string to recognize Sam's 'too much' moments, and Sam loosing control in this crowd would be beyond bad. "Okay. Then we go."

And they did. Together.


	22. Epilogue

Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's notes: And this is it. Thanks for sticking with me on this one. Hope you enjoyed the ride.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

* * *

Lonely feeling, deep inside  
Find a corner where I can hide  
Silent footsteps crowding me  
Sudden darkness, but I can see

_~The Guess Who - No Sugar Tonight/New Mother Nature_

_

* * *

_

"Was it a bluff?"

They were sitting on the Impala's hood. After leaving the church Dean had bundled Sam into the car and drove, somewhere away from angels and demons and everything else. Sam slouched in the passenger seat, eyes closed and rubbing his head. He trembled like a rabbit caught in a snare one second, and tensed up, hands fisting like he was going to be sick the next… and Dean had no idea how to help him.

Eventually they found a clearing near a reservoir. Dean parked the car, prodding Sam out of the passenger seat, and into the cool night air. The car at night could sometimes feel unreal, the way the darn never changed, and the distant lights just floated in an out of sight. What Sam needed was firm reality right now. To know he was _here_.

So Dean pushed him out of the car, and they propped themselves up against the cold windshield, the metal hot under them as the engine slowly cooled, watching what little moonlight that made it through the clouds play against the water. Dean had gone back to the trunk, fetching out a couple of beers, and sat shoulder to shoulder with his brother. That was as real as Dean could make things.

And Sam…seemed to gain some control. The shivering slowed. His body relaxed. Eventually he was just sitting there, next to Dean, almost normal.

Almost.

Which was about as much as Dean could expect…and a hell of a lot more then he'd ever thought possible three days ago.

And Dean was content…for awhile. Just sitting with Sam.

But eventually he had to ask.

"Was it a bluff? Or would you have let him back in?"

Sam didn't have to ask who he meant. A muscle in Sam's cheek jumped, but he only shrugged in response. He was tearing the label off of his bottle in long, thin strips.

"Huh." Dean took another long pull off his bottle. Sam was willing to destroy Heaven to save his family. Dean knew that should maybe worry him…but mostly he was just…strangely proud. And reassured. If Sam would do that for him, he would hold off Lucifer. For him.

"I think…" Sam started, eyes firmly pinned to his bottle. "I think…I may be a little…broken." His shoulders were hunched. He shivered again.

Dean sighed. Then swallowed. "I know. But we're getting you back. Piece by piece."

The late summer crickets sang.

The night was warm and quiet. His brother was _here_. Alive and warm and real. Everything else was fixable. Dean was good at fixing things.

Dean dropped a carefully wrapped packet on Sam's lap. He took another swallow and watched as Sam propped his now naked bottle against the windshield wiper, and stroked his fingers over the soft oil-cloth almost reverently. "It smells like Dad," he said.

Dean's throat closed. "Yeah. It does."

Sam's fingers picked at the tape. Not hurrying, not curious, just opening. The cloth fell open in his hands.

Sam picked up the Taurus, wrapping his hand around it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Dean watched the light play on the metal, so bright and sharp it made his eyes burn.

"Piece by piece," Dean muttered. "Welcome home, Sammy."

* * *

_You're driven back now to places you've been to  
You wonder what you're gonna find  
You know you've been wrong but it won't be long  
Before you leave 'em all far behind*_

~end

(*The Guess Who - No Sugar Tonight/New Mother Nature)


End file.
